


A Curious Little Bird

by Littlefeather



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: ASoIaF, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Friends to Lovers, Romance, Secret Relationship, sansan
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-19
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-27 00:47:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 21,411
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/972341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Littlefeather/pseuds/Littlefeather
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fill for Westeroswolf's Comment Fic Meme Prompt for the Moonmoth's Sansa_Sandor comm on LJ: Sansa gets a glimpse of Sandor half naked and she wants to see more, so she starts plotting and scheming to get Sandor to take his clothes off. Sexy times ensue :D</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Westeroswolf](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Westeroswolf).



“You have to go with me, otherwise it would be unseemly for me to go to the training yard,” Jeyne implored Sansa with pleading eyes. “Robb will be gone soon. I have very little opportunity to see him, you know. If you won’t agree you leave me no choice.”

Sighing, Sansa put down her embroidery and regarded her friend. It was only natural that Jeyne wanted to spend as much time near Robb as possible before the next campaign. He pledged his troth in secret, and even now that the family knew of his plans, it was still difficult for the couple. Still, even though she was raised around boys, she had never cared to watch their sport as Arya did, but Sansa couldn’t very well deny her friend and future goodsister the opportunity to be near Robb yet again.

“Alright, I will go,” she set aside her needlework with a smile. “The weather is fine out and I’ve been cooped up indoors all day. It will do us both good to take in the fresh air.”

Giggling, Jeyne looped her arm through Sansa’s and squeezed her close. “Thank you, dearest! I’ll let you wear my emerald gown at our wedding for this!”

Bright sunshine greeted the pair as they entered the training stands. The ring of clashing steel drew their eyes to the arena. “The men aren’t supposed to train with real swords,” Sansa shielded her eyes from the sun. “Father never let them do that. Only his most experienced men practiced in such a way. Robb should be more mindful.”

“It isn’t one of your brothers or his men training, Sansa, look! It’s the Hound sparring with Jaime Lannister!” Jeyne smiled at her. “Robb said they never use wooden swords in practice. He mentioned it to them but the Hound laughed right in his face and told him to-“

Gasping, her eyes fell on Sandor Clegane swiveling to block Jaime’s counter stroke, wearing nothing but his breeches and boots. In all the time he served as her sworn shield, Sansa could not remember a time when she had seen him in such a state of undress, and gods be good, he was magnificent.

Muscled like a bull, the hardened contours of Sandor’s defined pectorals tensed with effort during the parry. Heavily corded muscle rippled across the Hound’s broad shoulders as he brought the greatsword crashing down over his opponent’s head. Sandor fairly towered over Jaime, the powerful blow sending Jaime to his knees and the crowd to its feet.

It was clear to Sansa the golden lion didn’t even come close to comparing to her fierce sworn shield. Pride swelled within the young woman as she regarded Sandor. _How easily he defeats even a member of the Kingsguard!_ It was all the young woman could do to resist the urge to join Arya in wildly cheering him on.

As there was no need for light armor in the castle, Sansa often saw him wearing his tunic, and Sandor Clegane was just as large and intimidating as he was in armor, the fierce warrior stalking the halls of Winterfell with a dangerous air.

With his body openly on display before her now, Sansa wondered that she never noticed Sandor’s imposing physique before. Instinctively she knew Sandor must be well-muscled underneath but to see him in the light of day was entirely another matter. He reminds me of the marble statue of the Warrior in the Great Sept of Baelor.

“Is that the best you can do, South Paw?" The Hound's biting laughter filled the air. "Quit buggering around and get in the fight!”

“Finish him, Hound!” Arya shouted.

“Arya, please,” she scolded, moving beside her sister.

A large crowd began gathering in the stands. Word must have spread that Sandor and Jaime were practicing. Sansa daringly edged closer and settled in the front row of the stand for a better view, pulling Jeyne down in the seat beside her.

Equally powerful and graceful, Sandor easily swiveled out of Jaime’s reach and circled around him. Tossing his head, long damp hair clung to his face and shoulders. His smooth, tanned skin glistened with a fine sheen of sweat that ever so slowly trickled downward, following the line of fine black hair covering his rippled abdomen. A heated flush rose to her cheeks, but still she did not turn away.

Swallowing hard, Sansa allowed her eyes to follow the line of hair from Sandor’s chiseled stomach to the thickly roped groin muscles at his hips bared with each turn. His narrow waist was accentuated by well-fitting, low slung black leather breeches that clung provocatively to his hips.

“Sansa, what has gotten into you?” Jeyne patted her arm, “Are you feeling quite well?”

“Hmm?” Sansa mumbled distractedly, captivated by the sight of Sandor’s huge hands gripping the hilt of his sword. _The kitchen maids often whispered that the size of a man’s hands mirrored the size of more intimate parts of his body. If that were true, then Sandor must be very well endowed indeed._

"Yield! Yield!" Jaime shouted, laying the sword at his feet. The Hound’s snarling laughter echoed through the arena until his eyes fell upon a gaping, very red and very embarrassed little bird.

 _Perhaps he didn’t notice me. It is merely the crowd that caught his attention. Yes, it is the crowd._ Flustered, Sansa quickly went about smoothing her skirts, carefully avoiding Sandor’s puzzled gaze _. My lady mother would faint if she knew what I was thinking about Sandor._ _How could I entertain such unladylike thoughts about my sworn shield?_  

Hesitantly she glanced up at him and saw he was still staring at her. _Oh, the Seven bless me; he knows I was staring at him. He looks as though he has seen me without my shift._

The deep rumble of Sandor’s laughter echoed through the ring. Wincing, Sansa slowly raised her head. He was still staring at her. With his mouth twisted into a devilish grin, the Hound allowed his eyes to hungrily trail over her body and then slowly back up to her face. Smirking, he arched his back and flexed his pectorals in a languid stretch, all the while watching her closely.

Shame burned through her body, bringing hot tears to her eyes. Suddenly Sansa was on her feet, struggling to make her way through the crowd.  Vaguely she heard Jeyne calling behind her. “Sansa? Sansa are you alright? Oh, Lord Clegane, hurry-I think Lady Sansa has fallen ill.”

Sandor’s look of smug satisfaction fell and hurriedly he made his way through the stands toward her. She could hear him shouting for the people to stand aside. He was fast approaching her, and before she could worm her way out of his reach, he scooped her up in his massive arms.

“Sansa? What in seven bloody hells has gotten into you, girl?”

Sansa was too stunned and too embarrassed to speak, and so she burst into tears. Settling her back on the bench, Sandor gently raised his hand to her cheek. “You’re flushed, little bird. Let’s get you back to your rooms,” he sighed, lifting her carefully in his arms. “Can’t risk you getting the ague again.”

“It is not the ague. Leave me be.”

“No, damn it.” Sandor leaned in to her ear. “A woman’s affliction, mayhaps.”

Her cheeks flushed scarlet. “No!”

“No matter.” He chuckled darkly.

She knew she should tell him to put her down and that he should not carry her around like some trollop, but the feel of his muscular torso against her cheek chased away all reasonable thought. Inhaling deeply, she buried her face in his chest and drank in the scent of his skin. He smelled of wood smoke and dirt and sweat, and so overtly masculine Sansa suddenly felt light headed, warm and flushed.

With Sandor’s long stride it didn’t take long for them to reach her rooms. He carefully laid her down on the bed, his long hair brushing against her face as he pulled away. “I’m calling for Maester Tarly to come tend whatever it is that ails you,” he growled low. “You stay put.”

After he shut the door, Sansa buried her face in the pillow and cried in earnest. This by far was the most humiliating thing to ever happen to her. She had no idea how she would recover or even find the nerve to face Sandor later that day. The wave of new feelings his appearance and touch elicited from her was both exciting and confusing. What did it all mean? Resting back on her pillows, Sansa made up her mind that she had to find a way to see Sandor again, and this time, she wanted to see _all_ of him.


	2. Chapter 2

During the weeks that followed, Sansa distractedly went about her daily routine. Images of Sandor’s naked chest replayed in her mind each night and every morning she awakened to a dull aching need between her thighs. She told herself repeatedly that it was not proper, that she needed to rid her mind of the wanton thoughts Sandor evoked in her, but she was powerless to resist the urge to go to him.

Initially the young woman believed it was merely a childish fancy and decided to act as though nothing changed between them that fateful day. However, it soon became impossible to deny things had indeed changed, for the more Sansa watched him, the more she found him irresistible.

Everything about Sandor drove her mad with desire. His fine linen black tunics could hardly contain his heavily contoured chest, so broad and powerful that comfort required that he leave the lacings undone at the neck, exposing the fine black hair beneath. She loved the way his heavily muscled thighs and taut, rounded backside strained against the confines of his leather riding breeches as he accompanied her around the castle. Sansa longed to run her fingers over every inch of him, and one way or another, she was determined to see what was hiding underneath those leather breeches.

It was more than desire, though, she admitted to herself after a while; she genuinely cared for him. In fact, Sansa had felt a connection with the man for quite some time. The very sight of him now filled her stomach with butterflies, and the young woman began wearing her best gowns and undergarments in his presence, hoping that one day he would notice her in the same way.

Could it be more than her wanton desires getting the better of her? Is it be possible that she wanted Sandor to be more than her sworn shield, possibly even as a wife longs for her husband? Quickly she tried to dispel the thought. Wed _Sandor Clegane_? Robb would never allow it, she knew, and Sansa doubted he had any feelings for at all, though everyone in the castle remarked that he was uncommonly devoted to her. Is it possible that it meant he felt more than just dutiful obligation for her?

No matter how hard Sansa tried to occupy herself, she managed to find a reason to go with Jeyne to the training yard every afternoon. The weather suddenly turned cold and to her disappointment, she did not get to see Sandor fight again without his tunic.

Her appearances were so regular that Sandor began looking for her in the stands, wearing the same knowing smirk he wore that first day. The very memory never failed to bring a blush to Sansa’s cheeks, and Sandor chuckled darkly every time his gaze provoked her into coloring with heated embarrassment once more. She was desperate to see more of him but with her Jeyne and Mother always about, how would she manage it?

Sandor never mentioned what happened between them, whatever that was. In order to avoid her desires getting the better of her, Sansa avoided him as much as possible. Contenting herself with accompanying Jeyne to see Robb, she decided that at least this way, she had a legitimate reason for watching Sandor’s daily routine. Desperately she tried to avoid openly gaping at him but whenever Sansa tried to maintain her usual disinterested expression, she found herself staring in wonderment at his physique.

Soon Sansa came to believe Sandor liked having her there watching him, though he never said it. One day when a cold wind blew through the yard, he stopped and brought her a thick greatbear skin cloak. When she thanked him, he merely shrugged it off with a grunt, and so she gave no further thought to it. When one man dared tease him about it, Sandor responded by mercilessly pounding him into submission.

There was no denying that Sandor fought especially hard when she was present, though, and today was no exception. He brutally pummeled every opponent until they yielded, battered and bloodied. Sandor also seemed distracted, she noticed, and her scarred sworn shield took several bad blows to the ribs. After the day’s training session ended, Sandor came to her. Sansa saw her opportunity.

“Sandor, please, you will be terribly bruised from those blows,” Sansa quietly commented, struggling to maintain an air of dignity. Instinctively she reached for his tunic and lightly ran her hand over his side as she spoke. “You must go to the hot spring pool in the godswood for a soak.”

He drew in a sharp breath, whether from pain or pleasure Sansa could not tell. She noted her concern seemed to melt away some of the usual bravado he displayed when with her. Encouraged, Sansa moved closer still. “I will make certain no one disturbs you. Afterward, you can come to my rooms and I will dress it for you.”

“Aye,” Sandor agreed, his voice hoarser than usual. “I’ll go. That thrice damned Lannister bastard got a few good blows in today, didn’t he?” Chuckling he leaned in close to her ear and rasped, “Might be I was a bit diverted.”

The warmth of his breath against her ear sent a shiver of pleasure through her body. Getting him to go along with her plan had been far easier than she expected, and she could barely contain her excitement. Her throat went dry, and all Sansa could do was nod in return. Laughing under his breath, he turned and walked away from her.

“Where are you going?”

“To escort you to your rooms, my lady,” Sandor regarded her closely. “Mayhaps you are preoccupied today, too. Come along, little bird.”

Once safely inside, Sansa giggled with anticipation. _He agreed to bathe in the godswood! Finally, I’ll have my chance!_ She never thought the usually surly man would go along with it so easily, and his willingness gave her a moment’s pause. _Is it possible he suspects something? No, he thinks me a foolish bird; he would never guess what I am about._

Carefully she dressed in a dark gray gown and cloak before hastily making her way to the godswood. A pleasurable heat began pooling in her core as Sansa approached the waters of the hot springs. Quietly she crept closer, making sure she was hidden in the brush.

Sandor was already there, lounging in the pool with his elbow resting behind him. She heard him let out a long sigh as she drew near. At the sound she froze, her heart racing with a mix of fear and excitement. _Did he hear me?_   Everyone in the castle knew Sandor had excellent hearing as well as eyesight. She remained perfectly still and kept her distance for several long moments, and only after she was certain Sandor was unaware of her presence did Sansa draw breath and dare to move closer.

Sandor's brawny chest and back were even more magnificent that she remembered and now that his body was bared openly Sansa could not resist moving closer still. In addition to the bruises he acquired earlier, she noticed a line of fine white scars dotting his smooth skin. _Old battle wounds, my poor Hound._ She longed to kiss and caress each one of them.

Unexpectedly he let out a muffled groan and tipped his head back toward the sky, his hand moving under the water at a slow and steady pace.

 _What is he doing?_   She heard him groan again, and this time it echoed loudly through the godswood. The sounds he was making sent a rush of dampness to her woman’s place. _Oh, my, he's...he's..._

Sansa had heard of the carnal things men did when they were alone and witnessing Sandor in such a state fascinated her. His breathing started coming hard and fast, and the powerful man growled and cursed under his breath as he raised up out of the water.

Sansa then got a clear view of just the part of him she wanted to see, the _very_ large part of him that was hidden in those leather breeches, and gods be good, it was just as magnificent as the rest of him. She stared at him with all her might, and an unladylike moan escaped her lips as she slowly crept closer. His eyes were closed while he continued stroking his manhood at a frenzied pace until his face contorted with pleasure and to her utter astonishment, Sandor shouted in a strangled voice, “Sansa!”

Gasping loudly, she stumbled backward in the brush, landing firmly on her bottom in a thistle patch. Sandor’s eyes shot up to her, though she was still concealed by the rock mass. Hurriedly he began swimming in her direction. Without looking back, Sansa ran as fast as her legs would carry her back to her rooms, only to discover a large piece of material torn away from her skirts.


	3. Chapter 3

Swiftly she changed out of her torn gown and washed the mud from her hands and face. _I must hurry-Sandor will arrive any moment now. I promised I would dress his bruises_!  Carefully she looked over her wardrobe and selected a deep blue gown that matched her eyes; Sansa noticed each time she wore that particular gown, Sandor stared at her and was even more attentive than usual.

As a finishing touch, she dabbed a bit of winter rose perfume behind each ear, pinched her cheeks and brushed her hair until it gleamed for good measure. After pouring a glass of Arbor gold, Sansa down to her embroidery, trying in vain to settle her nerves. _Sandor didn’t see me. He couldn’t-the sun was in his eyes and I stayed behind the boulder. No, he didn’t see me, of that I am certain. If I just act normally, he won’t suspect a thing._

Before long the sound of his familiar heavy footfall stopped in front of her door, and it seemed to Sansa that Sandor paused for a moment before knocking.

“Come in,” she called lightly, struggling to control her breathing.

He stepped inside with his usual sardonic grin. “I hope you aren’t planning on practicing that on me like you did when I was wounded.”

“Don’t be silly,” she set aside her work. _So far, so good._ “Did you have a pleasant soak?” Her cheeks burned brightly. “That is to say, did the soak ease your misery?”

“Aye, some.” Sandor shifted awkwardly, his keen eyes scorching through her. “Why, did you hear something?”

 _Don’t look at him._ Swallowing hard, she shook her head and busied herself with the wound kit she procured from the maester. “Come, let me tend those bruises.”

“Bloody hells woman, I don’t need a nursemaid-“

“I would trust the care of my sword shield to none other than myself,” Sansa interrupted. “Since you have been practicing so fiercely, I have kept the arnica salve the wildings make in my kit for you. It is most soothing, I am told.”

“Why do you have on that fancy frock just to tend your dog’s wounds?” Sandor eyed her suspiciously. “You expecting someone else after I leave, is that the way of it?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly, Sandor. Who else would come here?” She thrilled at his tone, both angry and worried. _Is he jealous?_

Sandor snorted. “I can think of a few names. Who is it?”

“Really, Sandor, no one is coming here. I merely wanted to look nice,” she patted his side. “Is that so unusual?”

“Hmm,” He sniffed close to her. “Smell nice, too.” Tipping her chin up to him, Sandor eyed her warily. “What are you up to, little bird?”

“Nothing, Sandor, don’t be ridiculous,” she smiled nervously. “All this fuss over nothing.” Sneaking a glance at him, she casually asked, “You think I smell nice, truly?”

“Always, even without that expensive shit on your neck,” he muttered, lifting his tunic over his head. “Enough. Let’s get this over with, alright?”

Sansa’s heart quickened at the sight of his bare chest and abdomen openly on display before her. “I’ll take that as a compliment coming from you,” she whispered softly, ignoring his last remark. Gently she began rubbing the cream into his skin in rhythmic circles.

 _His muscles are so hard and yet his skin is very soft._ A contented sigh escaped her lips as she continued moving her palm over the carved plain of his stomach along his waistband. She could spend hours touching his skin; if Sansa wasn’t careful, her touch would soon become caresses, he felt so good.

Sandor uttered a moan that sounded suspiciously like the noise he made while pleasuring himself in the godswood, the sound sending a rush of dampness between her thighs. _Does he find this arousing?_

His hand caught her wrist in an iron grip. “What game are you playing, girl? Don’t fuck around with me.”

“I-I am not playing a game, Sandor,” she stammered, wrenching free from his grasp. “Why must you be so difficult? I only wanted to help you.”

“Help, you say. Then why won’t you look me in the face anymore?” Sandor snarled. “What changed? For the past few weeks you look away every time I come near you.”

 _This is going all wrong. I have to say something_ …“I-I did not realize I was,” Sansa mumbled, wringing her hands. “Please forgive my rudeness.”

“Find another escort, have you? No doubt that’s it. Someone prettier than me?” Scowling, Sandor snatched up his tunic and moved toward the door. “Is it Jaime fucking Lannister?  Answer me.”

 _Jaime Lannister?_   Confused, Sandor’s harsh words brought her to the verge of tears. _I thought he might be jealous, but how could Sandor imagine I would look at Jaime, let alone allow him to escort me?_

“Sandor, please, you must calm yourself. This is all a terrible misunderstanding, I would never-“

“It _is_ Jaime, isn’t it?” Sandor growled, yanking on the hem of his tunic,  his face twisting in fury. “So the pretty little bird can’t bring herself to look upon the old dog with the golden lion about?" Pinching her chin, he bitterly stared into her eyes. “Just admit it.”

Sansa finally mustered the courage to look at him. Sandor’s expression was full of pain and something akin to fear. Frightened, Sansa could not speak, could scarcely breathe as he made for the door. “No, Sandor, I-“

“A hound will die for you but never lie to you.” Sandor gritted his teeth and jerked away from her. “And that’s more than a little bird can do, isn’t it?”

“Sandor, I don’t know what has gotten into you but you are very much mistaken,” Sansa implored, taking his hand in hers.

“I’m sick of hearing you chirp, little bird,” he pulled free. “If there isn’t anything else, _my lady,_ I’m going to my rooms,” Sandor snarled before slamming the door behind him.

Leaning against the door, Sansa stood in stunned silence. _Sandor believes I am involved with Jaime? After what he did to Bran-after I was engaged to his monster of a son?_   How dare he even suggest such a thing! The more she thought about it, the angrier she grew, and Sansa petulantly kicked the footstool closest to her.

 _Jamie Lannister indeed!_ She never even wanted Robb to accept the Lannister lion into his service. After much debate with his small council, Robb extended the kingslayer mercy, deciding he would keep Jaime in his service as an insult to the Lannisters.  However, Sansa was far less inclined to overlook the injury to Bran and she bitterly reproached Robb’s decision in front of the family.

If left up to her, Sansa would have executed him in the northern tradition just as her father taught them to handle criminals. Much to her mother’s distress, she continued to express herself in the strongest of terms to her brother but to no avail. In order to establish peace, Great Uncle Brynden’s urged her brother to place Jaime on the front lines and many of the lower ranked Lannister soldiers refused to fight their liege lord’s heir.

Throughout the ordeal, Sansa confided her feelings to Sandor. How could he possibly believe she would ever entrust her safety to such a man? She slumped down into her window seat, lost in thought until the maid interrupted her.

“Milady, it’s time for supper.”

“I am not hungry,” she managed with a small smile. “Leave me, please. I will require nothing more until late tomorrow morning.”

“As it pleases you,” the young woman bowed and left the room.

Sansa could not let another moment pass without confronting Sandor’s accusation. Once the maid disappeared around the corner, she threw her cloak over her shoulders and snuck out of her room.

When she reached Sandor’s door, Sansa took a deep breath and knocked several times. _Where could he be? He said he was going to his rooms…_ Frustrated, she turned the handle and found the door unlocked. _Of course he would keep in open-what person in their right mind would dare enter the Hound’s room uninvited?_ After a moment’s pause, Sansa did just that.

Inside she found the room neat and orderly, save for a few empty wine casks on the nightstand. His tub was full of steaming water. _He will be back shortly; I can return later._ Glancing around, she saw he had the mirrors covered over, and the sight gave her pause. _Why would he do that?_ She wondered briefly before she heard his heavy footsteps on the landing.

 _Oh, could this day get any worse?_   Frantically she looked for a place to hide. The door rattled open just as Sansa managed to jerk the louvered closet doors closed.


	4. Chapter 4

Sansa strained to see through the narrow slats of the closet. Slumped down on the bed, Sandor held his head in his hands for several long moments before running long fingers through his hair. Then he drew the dark gray piece of her torn skirt from his tunic pocket and rubbed it between his fingers, almost gently.

Panic surged through her, and Sansa struggled to still her trembling _. He must have gone back to the godswood! He must know I was the one spying on him! Gods, whatever will he think of me now?_ Hot tears burned her eyes until she saw Sandor do something strange: he raised the material to his nose and inhaled deeply with a low growl before carefully rubbing the velvet material against his cheek.

Slowly he peeled off his boots and tunic before turning to face her and unlacing his breeches. _Oh, gods, he is going to take his bath…_ Gaping with all her might, she drank in the sight of his hardened cock jutting out from a mass of thick black hair below his stomach. _It’s so very long and thick-and the skin is the same color as his mouth!_ Oh, gods, she would never be able to look at him again without that thought coming to mind...

Sansa unconsciously licked her lips at the sight of Sandor’s aroused state. _Seven save me; his manhood reaches clear up to his belly button._ She knew she should turn away, but Sansa could not resist this opportunity to relish the sight of him. She had no idea when she would see him like this again and his manhood, after all, was every bit as impressive as the rest of him.

Her breath started coming in short gasps, and the young woman squeezed her thighs together to ease the sudden surge of aching want throbbing in her woman’s place. Swallowing hard, she wondered that he would even be able to fit inside a woman-and not just any woman, but _her_. One way or another, Sansa was now determined she would throw propriety to the wind and find a way to get Sandor into her bed, no matter the consequences.

After rinsing the warm water of his massive form, Sandor began leisurely lathering his chest and arms while humming softly to himself. Sansa immediately recognized the tune from the many weddings she attended: _The Bear and the Maiden Fair._ _That seems appropriate enough; Sandor certainly could pass for a bear, he is so very large and hairy._

A small giggle slipped out at the thought, and covering her mouth, Sansa gasped in horror when she saw Sandor’s eyes dart over to the closet doors. Suddenly he was on his feet and heading her way, sending bathwater sloshing all over the marble weirwood floor in his haste. Panicked, Sansa burrowed deeper into the closet behind his cloaks and held her breath as he yanked open the door. She remained perfectly still behind his clothes, all the while hoping he would not look down and see her feet.

“What the fuck? Little bird, come out of there! What in Seven hells has gotten into you?” Sandor bellowed, pushing aside the cloaks and dragging her out of the closet, seemingly oblivious to his naked state. “What would your septa say? Bloody hells! Since when did you start peeking at your sworn shield?”

Sandor stood before her naked as his nameday with his hand on his hip, dripping suds all over the floor. The soap began trickling down his stomach and trailed a wet path toward his manhood, gathering in the hair that covered his body. Speechless, Sansa turned scarlet and gaped at him once more and then covered her face with her hands.

Sandor’s deep rasping laugh echoed in the sparsely furnished room. When she peeked through her fingers he chuckled, and she watched his eyes heatedly sweeping over her body. “Not that I mind. Not every dog has such a pretty little bird spying on him. Go ahead, have your look, woman. I’ve no shame about it.”

Bursting into tears, Sansa raced past him out of the room. Faintly Sandor called out behind her but she was too humiliated to stop. _Surely he wouldn’t dare  follow me in his state of undress!_

With Sandor one could never be sure but it would certainly cost him his head if any of her brother’s men saw him chasing after her naked through the halls of Winterfell.

Once safely in her rooms, Sansa sobbed out her embarrassment in her pillow. She half expected him to follow her and was relieved when she discovered that he had not. Still, Sansa felt certain he would be along shortly and so she sat down at her dressing table, washed her face and smoothed down her hair.

A very long tedious hour later, she found herself somewhat disappointed when still he did not come to her. I _left him crying; as my sworn shield, surely he will check on me._ Is it possible she imagined the instances she believed were proof of his feelings for her? Perhaps it was only her girlish fancy that allowed her to believe he cared for her. Still, she was certain he found her desirable to look upon.  He couldn’t very well just stay away and pretend he didn’t find her in his closet, could he? Disillusionment settled over her as the hours ticked by with still no sign of Sandor.

A bitterly cold evening storm blew down from the Frostfangs, chilling her quarters.  Not wishing to call the maid, Sansa went about building a fire and then reclined on the chaise with a glass of wine. The last call of the nightwatchman sounded through Winterfell, and still no sign of Sandor. Confused and disheartened, Sansa decided she would prepare for bed. On her nightstand she spied the new book Sandor brought her but after struggling to focus,  she gave up. She was too distracted to read. As she set it down, she thought she heard footsteps outside her door. Pausing, she went to the door and paused, straining her ears against the wood. _He wouldn’t dare sneak up on me at this time of night._ _It is nothing more than my nerves playing tricks on me,_ Sansa decided after several moments passed and still she was unable make out any further noise _._

Distractedly Sansa sat down to her vanity, reached for the lavender oil and inhaled deeply from the flask, willing herself to relax. It helped some but still she felt agitated and cross. Eyeing her hairbrush, she remembered the comfort it brought when her mother used to brush her hair as a child. _Yes, it is just the thing to settle my nerves before bed._

Methodically Sansa began running the brush through the length of her hair, carefully detangling the knots with her fingers while humming Sandor’s earlier tune. To her dismay, the lace bodice of her sleeping gown caught on the fine boar bristles, snagging the delicate material. Annoyed, Sansa hastily slipped the gown of her shoulders, kicked it off to the side and continued brushing her hair.

Images of Sandor’s body came unbidden to her mind, bringing a small smile to her face and filling her body with a delightfully warm sensation. She would certainly dream about him after the extraordinary events of the day. The distinct clicking of the door handle startled her out of her reverie. Whirling around, she saw Sandor standing inside the doorway, his mouth pulled into a wicked grin.

“Let’s see how the Little bird likes having her sworn shield peek at _her_ for a change,” he growled, dangling the torn piece from her skirt in front of her as he entered the room and closed the door.

A hot flush of embarrassment spread over her cheeks. “Sandor, this is-this is not-“ she sputtered, trying to pull the lace robe she sat on over her shoulders. The garment was trapped beneath her and so she settled on covering her breasts with her hands and crossed her legs in an final desperate attempt to preserve her modesty.

Chuckling darkly, he stepped closer to her. “What? Decent? Appropriate?” Sandor mocked, the corner of his lips curling devilishly as he allowed his eyes to slowly take in her body. “Seems the Little bird didn’t mind those things when she was the one getting the eyeful.”

Sansa watched Sandor’s gray eyes darken with lust as they leisurely traveled from her face to her hair draped over her breasts and then down the slope of her stomach to the dark red curls concealing her woman’s place.

Laughing coarsely, he licked his lips at her and stepped closer. “What’s good for the bird is good for the Hound, woman.”


	5. Chapter 5

Sandor’s lascivious words brought yet another wave of embarrassment over the young woman. Startled, Sansa knew she should be indignant that he would dare treat the lady he was sworn to protect with such coarse familiarity, but in fact his behavior was having quite the opposite effect upon her.

Blushing heatedly, she squeezed her thighs together and wriggled in her seat to ease the ache between her legs. A deep tingling flushed through her body but still Sansa did not allow her eyes to waver from his face. Instinctively her nipples hardened as she returned his gaze, the small pink buds peeking through the curtain of dark auburn hair falling over her shoulders.

The intensity of his eyes felt as though Sandor was caressing her, even though the man had not moved. Sansa had never been so aroused in all her life, and she felt her woman’s place begin throbbing with desire. She squeezed her legs together once more, hoping he would not notice her wanton behavior.

Swallowing hard, Sandor’s eyes flickered down to her lap. _He saw me! He knows I am aroused by this situation-that I desire him!_ Sansa was mortified, excited and afraid all at once; she wanted him in her bed earlier and now that it seemed she would get her wish. The back of her mind whispered that they were not husband and wife and allowing him to stare at her nude body, let alone taking him into her bed, was wrong and indecent. She was a lady and needed to put an end to the improper situation at once.

Sandor’s heated gaze felt too delicious for Sansa to care about propriety, however, and instead of telling him to leave, she daringly allowed her eyes to wander over his body in return.

Sandor fairly panted in response, his muscular chest straining the thin material of his tunic with each drawn breath. Glancing downward, Sansa gasped at the sight of his engorged manhood standing taut against the shiny leather material of his breeches, straining the lacings of his pants. _Sandor is excited, too, and he cannot hide it._

Knowing that such a strong powerful man desired her gave Sansa a peculiar sense of power over her sworn shield, bringing a positively wicked idea into her mind. Staring deep into Sandor’s eyes, Sansa smiled nervously and swept her hair over each shoulder, baring her breasts to him as she methodically uncrossed her legs and exposed her most secret part to his view. “I suppose it is only fair that I allow you to look at me, too, after the shameful way I have behaved toward you.” He stared at her hungrily in disbelief. “Go ahead, Sandor, I will not hide myself from you.”

Sandor’s eyes hungrily fell to her woman’s place, his jaw clenched tightly. Pleased, Sansa watched the corner of his mouth twitch sharply as he regarded every inch of her, the man veritably drinking in the sight of Sansa’s body bared before him. She felt powerful, beautiful, and in control, and Sansa loved it.

After adjusting his lacings, he then suddenly snatched a throw from her bed and draped it over her shoulders. “No, not like this, little bird,” Sandor sank to his knees and buried his face in her lap. “Why in bloody hells are you doing this to me?” His breath was warm against her skin, his rasping voice pained and harsh.

Sansa sighed and began running her fingers through the length of his hair. “I am doing no more to you than you are to me, Sandor. Can you not tell how I long for you?”

“Unlikely, that.” Sandor barked, mirthless and bitter. “Why would you want a dog, anyway? You’re a pretty little bird, and only want to sharpen your little claws on your sword shield and then flit away to wed some buggering lord.”

“I would not do that to you,” Sansa whispered, drawing his chin up to her. “Do you think so little of me?”

“Not a matter of what I think,” Sandor scoffed, jerking away from her. “You wouldn’t be the first highborn to do it. You highborns are all the same; using men like me and then wedding the first prissy lord who looks your way. I know the way the world works.”

His words aroused her curiosity. “Has someone done this to you before?”

“Might be.”

 _Who would dare use him in such a way?_ It was unimaginable that a highborn lady would dare take Sandor Clegane into her bed and then toss him aside. An unthinkable notion began forming in her head. “Tell me please: who treated you so cruelly?” Sansa tenderly caressed his face and swallowed down her fear. “Was it Cersei?” She held her breath, dreading his reply.

“Bugger that, and bugger her, too.” Sandor shook his head while resting his cheek once more on her the tops of her thighs. “It was another, long ago. You'll never meet her and I'll not tell you her house.”

“For shame, Sandor. She is no lady, if she would hurt you in such a callous way.” Though still indignant, Sansa could not help but let out a sigh of relief. After covering herself, Sansa gently rested her knees on either side of his waist and held his face in her hands. “Sandor Clegane, I swear on the old gods and the new that I will never hurt you. You must trust me, as I trust you.”

“Bloody hells, woman,” Sandor snorted. He tried to move away again but Sansa held firm.

“I love you, Sandor; I have for some time. In truth, a part of me has always known I loved you.” Sansa smiled sadly at him. “I just did not allow myself to feel it.”

“Think I’m daft enough to believe that? You’ve always wanted your handsome lords with their fancy ways, not a dog meant to eat the scraps from your table.”

“Don’t you see?” She caressed his face tenderly. “In King’s Landing I learned to hide my feelings so well that now they have become unknown even to me.” She watched as bitter tears filled his eyes. “I sought you out because you are as beautiful on the outside as you are inside and I wanted to see what might be between us.”

“Might be there will never be anything between us, woman.” Jerking away, Sandor growled low, his eyes full of pain. “Quit your chirping, Sansa. Your kingly brother will never-“

Sansa lightly pressed her fingers over his lips, stilling his words. “Is it no wonder I never told you of my feelings, Sandor? It is because I feared you would react this way. I might never have told you if you had not caught me in your closet.”

“True enough, that. Is the little bird embarrassed to find herself hungry for a dog?” He hissed through gritted teeth, though a glimmer of hope in his stormy eyes betrayed his thoughts.

“No,” she said quietly. “That has nothing to do with it. I never dared believe you would ever care for me in return.”

“So, the little bird fancies herself in love with me, is that the way of it?” Sandor’s mouth twitched several times. “A wolf in heat you might be, little bird, but there’s no love in it. You don’t need to pretty it up, turn me into one of your fairy tale knights.”

Hurt, Sansa blinked back the tears pricking her eyes. “Do you really find it so difficult to believe I find you beautiful to look upon? Do you truly find it so easy to mock my feelings for you?” She angrily stared into his eyes. “Do you truthfully think me so shallow or are you only growling so as to scare me off? Answer me.”

“You can’t feed a starving dog, Sansa, and then throw him outside,” Sandor whispered against her skin. “If we do this you’ll be mine and I’ll not give you up.”

“I would never do that to you, I swear it,” she closed the distance between him and tentatively placed a gentle kiss on his lips. At first Sandor resisted but soon eagerly began kissing her in return and touched his tongue to her mouth. She parted her lips for him and moaned into his mouth before breathlessly pulling away. “I want you, Sandor, in body as well as heart. Take me, my love. I am yours.”

Sandor extended his calloused hand towards her, his fingers and palm shaking, while his dark smoldering eyes met hers, at once fearful and pleading. Smiling reassuringly, Sansa accepted it with a small squeeze. Leading her to the edge of the featherbed, he settled her on his lap and leaned against the headboard. “Sansa, come here lass.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sandor’s voice, thick with desire, rasped even more harshly than usual, the rugged sound eliciting a corresponding shiver of delight through Sansa’s body. Nervously she rested her back against his chest, resting her hands over his forearms and pressing the hardness of his manhood tightly into the small of her back.

She tilted her head up and lightly covered his mouth with her own, slowly sipping at his lips. Kissing a grown man, especially one as utterly masculine and hard as Sandor, was a far different experience than any of the tame, sloppy kisses she received from Theon when they played princess and knight. Butterflies fluttered through her stomach as she gently teased his lips, running the tip of her tongue over his mouth before gently nibbling on the scarred side.

Though Sandor stiffened as a part of him hesitated, he moaned softly in the back of his throat as she continued to inexpertly brush her tongue lightly across his lips. He tasted as good as he looked, and Sansa didn’t think she ever wanted to stop kissing him. She felt strong arms encircle her waist, and finally Sandor yielded to her.

Fisting her hair with both hands, the powerful man pulled her further onto his lap and opened his mouth to her, his initial hesitation replaced with hot need. Hungrily he returned her kisses while grinding his hardened manhood into her back. Slowly he caressed her hips and thighs, moving his hands to her waist before lightly brushing his fingers across her taut nipples.

Breathless, Sansa grasped his waist harder. “I-I want to feel you,” she softly moaned, turning to face him. Slipping her hands into his tunic, she played her fingers across the broad expanse of his shoulders. “You are so very strong, please, I want, I want-“

Quickly he yanked the garment over his head, loosened the lacing on his breeches and pressed her hands against his hard pectorals. “Is this what you want, little bird, truly?” He rasped into her ear, stilling her hands.

“Oh Sandor,” she sighed into his mouth, gently moving his hand away from hers. Languidly she traced the heavy musculature of his abdomen down the trail of hair leading inside his breeches with her fingertips, causing Sandor to curl into her with a strangled cry. “Yes, I want to love you. You are beautiful, so very beautiful.”

Smiling shyly, the young woman pressed her hand against his chest, settling him back against the bed. Tentatively she placed light kisses on his chest before following the path of sharp contours of his stomach with her mouth, reveling in the taste of his skin.

Pillowing her head on his hip, Sansa drew in a deep breath, savoring the feeling of his rapid rise and fall of his stomach against her cheek. Emboldened, she swirled her finger down the path of hair to his lacings, tugging lightly on them.

Suddenly Sandor grabbed her hands, his grip harsh and unyielding. "I won't last like this, little bird, you are too beautiful," he gasped for breath. “You feel so good, I won’t-“

The sight of her powerful sworn shield brought to his knees by her touch both moved and aroused Sansa. "Shh, it is alright," she whispered and held him close to her breast once more, caressing his head with her hands. “We have the rest of the night.”

After a few moments, Sandor’s breathing slowed, and he tilted her face up his and kissed her tenderly. Moaning, she began arching into him, hungry for more of his touch, more of everything with him.

Tearing his lips away from hers, Sandor kissed his way down her body, covering every inch of her with his mouth before settling between her legs. He placed his hands on either side of her thighs and inched his long fingers slowly toward her center. The heat from his hands was nearly unbearable and every touch a provocation. Pausing, she watched him stare at her most intimate place in wonder.

Sansa gasped for breath, the young woman barely able to form words in her excitement. “Do I please you?" She bashfully managed. "Am I pleasant enough to look upon?”

“Bloody hells, how can you doubt it?” Sandor reached down and stroked the length of his manhood. Sansa’s eyes widened, the young woman fascinated as she watched him pleasure himself in the same manner as he did earlier in the pool. Reaching down, she gently replaced his hand with her own. Sandor groaned loudly and circled his fist around her own, guiding her movements.

“Little bird, you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen,” Sandor murmured into her ear and then sighed as he knelt in front of her. “Sansa, you have to tell me now if you want to stop.”

“I thought I made myself clear," Sansa smiled down at him. "I do not wish to stop."

Suddenly he pulled away from her. “Sansa, damn it, if we do this, I can’t go back to the way it was before between us,” Sandor spat out almost angrily, “with me as your sworn shield and you my mistress." Gripping her chin tightly, he stared into her eyes, his dark eyes glittering passionately as he regarded her. Sansa levelly met his gaze, raised his hand to her mouth and kissed him tenderly.

The intensity she saw in him took her breath away as Sandor harshly rasped out, "I meant my words. I’ll fight the bloody Warrior himself to keep you. My beautiful bird, after this night you will be my woman and I will fucking kill any man that tries to separate us, believe that.”

The weighty implication behind his coarse words touched Sansa’s heart profoundly. Though she suspected Sandor cared for her for quite some time, it never occurred to her that he desired anything beyond the physical with her, and the revelation sent brought a sudden burst of joy to the young woman. _The fierce Hound wants me, not just for the night, but for a lifetime. My poor love, he will not allow himself to take me until I reassure him that I feel the same for him._

The stunning realization soon brought another to mind. _I will be his woman after tonight-does he mean to take me as his wife?_ Robb and her mother would surely run him out of Winterfell if he made an offer of marriage. Surely Sandor understood the complications of such a course yet clearly he longed for something akin to a commitment, a promise that she would belong to him before he took her maiden’s gift.

“Sandor, I begged Robb to allow you to serve as my sworn shield because I thought there was no other way to keep you by my side,” she whispered, kissing away the hot tears slipping down his cheeks. “I want you-all of you. Your body, your heart-everything you are willing to share with me, not just now, but for a lifetime. In my heart, I am your woman, Sandor, and I have been for some time. I wish never to be parted from you.”

"Then you never will be, little bird, you best believe that,” Sandor sighed against her skin, gently laying her down before quickly removing his breeches. Thrilled that he was ready to take her at last, Sansa inhaled sharply at the sight of his erect manhood jutting out from his powerful thighs, hard and heavy and wet with arousal.

Settling beside her, he propped himself up on one elbow as his large calloused hands eagerly roamed over her skin. She arched her back and kissed him deeply while running her hands over his hips and buttocks, pulling him flush against her.

“Fuck you are perfect, lass-far too good for the likes of me,” Sandor exhaled, laying his head on her breasts. He savored her slowly, licking and sucking wetly on her nipples, allowing his tongue to trace every detail.

Biting her lip, Sansa tried in vain to prevent wantonly moaning under the feel of his hot mouth trailing over her skin, and so she gave herself over to every sensation Sandor’s touch urged from her body, all the while impatiently arching her back and grinding her thigh into his manhood. “I would learn to please you,” she gasped into his ear, lightly sucking at the lobe. “Please, tell me what to do.”

“You please me in every way, Sansa,” Sandor shuddered above her before moving lower. Nudging her legs wider, he rested his head on her stomach once more, his warm breath warm against her skin. "We'll find out what you like first."

Unsure of what he meant to do next, Sansa nervously shifted beneath him, suddenly self-conscious. The wetness pooling between her legs inched down her thigh, bringing a flush of embarrassment to her cheeks. The young woman glanced down at Sandor nestled between her legs and blushed once more when she watched his eyes widen at the sight, a devilish laugh echoing through his body.

“So eager,” Sandor groaned sharply before running his tongue over her skin, hungrily drinking up every drop. Sansa felt his warm breath travelling further across her stomach and hips before stopping above her mound. “Gods be good, I never dreamed I’d have you so wet and willing in my bed.”

Sandor’s stubbled cheek scratched along the inside of her thighs.  The ache between Sansa’s legs throbbed expectantly. Wriggling her hips, Sansa’s breathing started coming in short, shallow gasps, anxiously waiting for what she did not know.

“Easy, Little bird, I just want to take in your sweetness. By the gods you are a beauty, the Maiden made flesh.”

A flush of embarrassment radiated from her face and neck. "Sandor I-my septa said this is not proper, that men don’t like-" she managed to moan, already trembling at the feel of his mouth nibbling toward the apex of her thighs.

Nuzzling into her mound, Sandor whispered into her folds. "Bugger that nonsense. Let me have a taste of you."

Closing her eyes, Sansa tipped her head back and surrendered to the feel of his wet tongue gently sipping her flesh, his powerful arms securing her body.

"You-you don't mind?" Sansa dazedly asked while running her hands through his hair.

"Only a fool would turn away from a feast such as you, little bird” he moaned and inhaled deeply. "I love the smell of your skin." Sandor’s tongue traced circles over a sensitive spot previously unknown to her, drawing a loudly gasp from her throat. "I want to taste your sweetness on my lips," he rasped before laving his tongue over the length of her slit. “Gods help me,lass; I want my fill of you-all of you." Suckling leisurely on her nub, Sandor began slowly pushing his fingers inside her in a slow rhythm, slow at first and then increasing as her moans came louder and faster.

Her breathing shallow, Sansa forgot all propriety and rapidly thrust her hips to meet the pace of his tongue and fingers, the initial sting melting deliciously into a deep primal pleasure.

"That's it, little bird," he chuckled, his beard tickling the tender flesh of her thighs. "So sweet; like honey you are to me, lass." Sandor’s touch set her body aflame, steadily building pressure in her core as he continued his ministrations.

"Don't stop, please," she whimpered out, digging her heels into his shoulders, every muscle in her body tensing until she cried out loudly, her pleasure culminating in the sweet contentment of release.

Blinking back her surprise, Sansa looked down to see smug satisfaction curling onto Sandor’s lips. "You liked that, little bird?"

"Oh, yes," she blushingly nodded.

Hurriedly Sandor positioned himself above her and pleadingly panted into her ear, “Gods help me, I can’t wait any longer to fuck you, Sansa. Let me have you.”


	7. Chapter 7

"Sandor, my love, I need you, too, but please be gentle with me," she lowered her eyes. “I am a maid, and I’m afraid I will not be…enough for you,” Sansa blushed once more and cast a quick glance at his manhood. “You are larger than most men in _all_ respects, my love.”

“Don’t fret, lass, I won’t hurt you-at least no more than can be helped the first time around,” Sandor gasped out. “Tell me if you want me to stop.”

She nodded, and no more had she done so than she felt the tip of his manhood at her entrance. With a low moan, Sandor slowly thrust his cock deep inside her. The sharp sting of losing her maidenhead nearly took her breath away. Biting his shoulder, Sansa stifled her muffled cry as her inner walls tightened around his thick member.

“Sorry, little bird,” he murmured into her neck, gently placing soft kisses at her throat as he slowly began moving inside her. "Try to relax; it'll go easier now."

She felt completely filled by him, and soon the initial pain transformed into a sweet pleasurable ache building in her core once more. Tentatively Sansa tried shifting her hips, whispering words of love in his ear as she squeezed his shoulders and pushed against him, matching each of his movements with her own.

As Sandor loved her, Sansa discovered a heightened state of responsiveness in her body she had never before known, and every sensation felt more pronounced and intensified within her. The feel of Sandor’s hair brushing against her face, the strength in the massive arms that surrounded her, the throbbing hardness of his manhood moving inside her woman’s place, his love and passionate need all engulfed her senses. Lost in the pleasure of his body, it seemed to Sansa that everything around them had fallen away, leaving only the world she and Sandor found in each other.

Sandor's large hands suddenly gripped her thighs tightly, his fingers digging into the soft flesh as his thrusts became faster and more erratic. Sansa sensed that he could not bring himself to slow down, as though he is captive to his connection with her. “Gods, so tight-I won’t last like this,” he groaned into her ear.

“Find your pleasure, my love,” she whispered back. Arching her back, his manhood found a sweet spot deep inside, and suddenly Sansa’s walls contracted tightly around him and her stomach shuddered in release, her whole body trembling beneath him. Sandor soon followed, groaning loudly as he spilled his seed inside her.

After he caught his breath, he quickly released his grasp with a small chuckle. “Are you alright? Bloody hells, I never meant to-that is to say, I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“You did not hurt me,” Sansa dreamily sighed, stroking his back with the flat of her hand. “That was wonderful, Sandor, even better than I imagined it would be.”

“You imagined us like this?” He asked incredulously, sitting up and staring at her with a devilish grin.

“Yes,” she blushed, “many times.”

“Crazy bird,” he chuckled, taking her into his arms.

“Did you?”

“Aye, many times, lass.” Sandor admitted sheepishly, pulling her on top of him while leisurely caressing the swell of her hips and bottom.

A deep sadness swept over her; she was not ready to end their closeness just yet. Sansa brushed her hair away from his face and kissed him tenderly. “Will you stay for a bit?”

“I’ll stay,” he kissed the top of her head. “A thousand of your thrice damned direwolves couldn’t drag me away from you, lass.”

Gently he tipped her chin up to him and kissed her, slow at first and then deeper, moaning when she opened her mouth and touched her tongue to his own.

“But Sandor, do be careful,” she pulled away slightly. “What of the maid? You must not get caught here with me,” Sansa murmured softly while caressing his face. “My brother will kill you, should we be found like this.”

Sandor’s eyes darkened, his jaw twitching angrily. He leaned up and rested his forehead against her neck. “If someone comes barging through that door, I’ll not be the one dying, you best believe that,” he growled low, taking her chin between his fingers. “No one will find out about us. Do you trust me?”

The black intensity of his gaze startled her. Why would he ask her this at such an intimate moment? “Yes,” Sansa answered apprehensively. “Of course I trust you. I gave you my maiden’s gift.”

“Then leave Winterfell with me.” A primal, dark rage colored Sandor’s words. “Say you will, lass, and I swear on all seven hells I’ll keep you safe. I’ll make sure you never want for anything.” He gripped her tightly, making her breathing difficult.

She had not expected him to ask this of her so soon. “Y-yes, Sandor, I love you,” she kissed him soundly as she eased his arms away from her. The look in his eyes frightened her, but still she readily agreed. “Of course we will leave, if that is what you wish.”

Seemingly relieved, he held her tightly and slumped against her, sighing into her hair. “That eases my mind greatly.” As if to reassure her, Sandor attempted a small smile, though he venomously spit out his next words, the rage radiating from his body. “You’ll not hesitate once you learn what that thrice damned brother of yours concocted. Buggering fool.”

 _Sandor has not been this angry since Joffrey killed Father_. Sansa was at a loss as to what could have happened to infuriate Sandor to such a degree. Over the past several days she noticed worried glances between her mother and brother, but that was not unusual; Sansa was used to such exchanges since the war began. Robb and Jeyne were ready to marry in three days hence; perhaps that was it. _Surely Mother and Robb would have told me if anything involved me directly, wouldn’t they?_

Before Sansa could inquire further, Sandor heatedly covered her mouth with his own, and before she knew it, her questions melted away under the feel of Sandor’s body positioned between her thighs for the second time that night. He took her gently, slowly, and gazed into her eyes as he loved her. The experience was very emotional for Sansa, and afterward she cried happy tears into his chest as he stroked her back.

Not wanting to spoil the peaceful mood, Sansa bit back her questions and quickly fell asleep in his arms, only to be awakened an hour later to Sandor’s desperate and hungry kisses silently imploring permission to love her yet again.

Sansa marveled at the change in the fierce man as he took her, slow and sweet at first and then eventually culminating in a frenzied, consuming passion that astounded her. As dawn neared, she felt Sandor possessively gripping her tightly against his chest, his quick and uneven breathing alerting her that he was awake.

She leaned up to kiss him but he rolled away and slipped on his breeches. “Sansa, I have to leave Winterfell this morning. Don’t ask me why or where; I need you to trust me. It’ll go easier that way.”

“You are leaving me?” Her heart raced. “So soon?” Hot tears stung her eyes, and Sansa bit her lip to keep from asking the myriad of questions that crept into her mind. “What could possibly take you from me?”

“Your brother sent me on an errand that will not keep. No matter what you hear, I’ll return for you; you have my word.” Sandor sat beside her, his thumb tracing her bottom lip thoughtfully as he spoke. “I won’t be long. Be ready for me when I return, you hear? Have your things packed.”

“Y-yes of course, my love,” Sansa managed, allowing her tears to flow freely.

Sandor looked away, fury and pain mingling in his eyes. Gently he took her face in his hands. “I have never lied to you, little bird.”

“No, you have not.” Sansa pressed his hand to her cheek. "You are the only one who has never lied to me."

Caressing her jaw, he kissed her softly. “Say you trust me.”

“I trust you,” she blinked away her tears and stared into his eyes, relieved at his honest expression. “Here, before you go,” she fumbled around her sewing basket.

 His eyes widened as she tied a long lock of her hair with a yellow ribbon and then snipped it off with her shears. Quickly Sansa braided and tied it securely before she handed it to him. “It is a love lock, Sandor, so you will have something to remind you of me while we are apart,” she whispered shyly, twisting the edge of the blanket in her hands.

“As if I needed anything more to remember you, lass,” he growled against her mouth and then trailed warm kisses down the hollow of her throat before tearing himself away. “Gods be good, you are a beauty.”

“Please, let me have yours as well,” Sansa twirled the length of his hair between her fingers as she pulled away, delighted by his open admiration.

Sandor smirked at her, and then dipped his head and gestured toward the scissors. “Go on, then. Take it.”

Carefully she cut the lock he offered and kissed it, holding it against her breast. “Thank you; I will wear inside my shift, next to my heart.”

“You do that,” Sandor’s mouth twitched as he watched her. “I’ll be back, lass.”

“I know, Sandor, I trust you,” Sansa repeated, gazing into his eyes.

Sandor gritted his teeth and pulled her close. “I-I love you, little bird.” His words left her in stunned silence, and despite his somber mood, Sansa could only smile broadly and giggle to herself as he hurriedly turned toward the door.

"As I love you," she whispered and collapsed back onto the bed. Sandor caught her up in an impulsive embrace, kissed her softly and then tucked her in carefully.  After he left, the weight of Sandor's absence settled over her suddenly, and Sansa spent the better part of an hour crying herself to sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With this chapter the a/u turns toward the events in A Storm of Swords. 
> 
> For my readers who may be nervous by the mention of a certain character, please rest assured that nothing terrible happens in this story. Just to be safe, I have put an asterisk (*) next to a paragraph where potential triggers, which are known behaviors of the character in canon, are mentioned in conversation. This way if you want to avoid that paragraph you can skip over it and still enjoy the rest of the fic.

When Milly came to ready her for the day, Sansa feigned embarrassment, fussed over her sheets and claimed her moonblood was upon her. In reality she wanted to laugh and twirl about, so happy she was to have Sandor’s love at long last; yet the sweet ache that accompanied her thoughts of him was tempered with profound sadness, knowing her love was likely already miles away.

The wizened old woman smiled understandingly and swiftly brought the appropriate items from the maester. “I’ll leave spare sheets for ye, miss,” she felt Sansa’s forehead with a frown. “A mite flushed, ye are. I’ll make sure you’ve hot bricks and chamomile tea this evenin’-that’ll set you to right. The red flower is the bane of womanhood.”

“Thank you,” Sansa wanly whispered, striving to maintain the severe awkwardness expected in such indelicate situations. A wave of annoyance surged through her as she played the role of the dainty maiden humiliated by her red flower.

 _A red flower_ , _indeed_ ; the term always set her teeth on edge. Why should everyone tiptoe about, treating a normal female occurrence like an unspoken scourge? And even if she did have her moonblood, why should she feel guilty over it, as though it were somehow shameful?

The gods, after all, put it upon all women to bear children. Though admittedly unpleasant at times, how could it be considered anything less than a miracle that she was now able to carry and nurture life? Swallowing her indignation, Sansa focused on Sandor’s declaration of love, his promise to return, and her own oath to keep their relationship a secret. Fixing her eyes in her lap, she meekly submitted to the maid’s preparations. The old woman finished by pinning her hair back into an austere bun and pinching her cheeks. After Sansa stepped into her plainest gown, another maid entered the room. “Ser Brynden Tully for you, milady.”

 _Great Uncle arrives to escort me to breakfast? How very odd. Perhaps there is news of the war._ Smiling curtly, Sansa tilted her head and put on her best smile. “Please see him in.”

Brynden Tully stiffly walked into the room. “Great Uncle Brynden, what a pleasant surprise. How good of you to come for me this fine day!” Sansa beamed up at him, hoping to disguise her mounting anxiety with cheerfulness.

He was not fooled. “Greatniece,  your spirits seem high, almost as high as the color in your cheeks. Are you feeling feverish?” The Blackfish led her by the arm toward the Great Hall, pausing as he carefully took in her appearance. “Tell me, are you quite well? Perhaps I should call the maester and your mother to attend you.”

 _Why are we not going toward the dining hall?_  Distractedly, Sansa replied, “No, Ser, it is nothing so serious as that.” She wrung her hands, dread seizing her throat as she continued. “Forgive me, but I am ailing with the affliction common to women. I would not have mentioned such unpleasantness to you but I cannot bear having you worry about me unnecessarily.”

“Ahem, I see,” he cleared his throat and patted her hand. “You needn’t look so guilty. Your mother ought not to have taught you in such a way; it is your greatmother’s doing, you know. Your own Father, the gods rest his soul, had a sister of his own and he would not approve of such foolishness.”

Sansa knew that much was true; it was her Father who first broached the subject with her and Arya, not their mother, and took them to the stables to observe the horses as a means of explanation.

“Yes, you speak truly. But you are unmarried, and I am afraid Mother would not approve of me telling you of it. It must be our secret; she would scold me severely if she knew.”

“Though I am a bachelor, true, I am not insensitive to the sufferings of women, Sansa,” He laughed, shaking his head. I am not as daft as little Cat would believe. I have two nieces, you recall, and a measure of experience with woman besides.”

“Quite right,” she bit her lip, wishing he would come to his point. “You must forgive my careless speech; I am a bit out of sorts this morning. You are anything but insensitive, Ser, and I did not mean to imply otherwise. It is only that I was taught not to discuss such maladies with men, particularly those who are unmarried.”

“I know, Sweetling, I know. Do not fret, at least not over that.” The Blackfish sighed deeply. “I am afraid there are greater troubles for you yet to navigate.”

“Then what is it? Tell me what distresses you, Great Uncle.” Squeezing his hand, she added, “Please, unburden yourself. I can bear it.”

“Sansa, we are not going to break our fast just yet,” Brynden hesitated, patting her arm. “Your brother the king requests your presence at once.”

“Great Uncle, please, will you not tell me what has happened?” She had never seen her brave and jovial uncle so terse and awkward. Alarmed, Sansa stopped short in the corridor of the Great Hall. “Has the tide of the war turned against us?”

“No love, nothing like. Your brother has won all his battles, though I am afraid he is depending on you to cement his alliances, the fool boy.”

Her uncle’s cold tone sent a sharp chill through Sansa’s blood. _Great Uncle’s concern must be one in the same as what upset Sandor._ Sansa clutched the Blackfish’s arm and raised her hand to her throat. “Whatever do you mean? Please, tell me truly.”

“Your _kingly_ brother means to wed you to Lord Bolton’s bastard, Ramsay Snow now named Bolton, as a reward for his father’s loyalty.  Though he once shared a surname with your brother, he is nothing like Jon, I assure you.”

 _ ***** Good gods, Ramsay Bolton?_ Sansa heard horror stories of the man whispered throughout Winterfell: tales of rape, torture, and hunting humans as prey. _No, Snow or not, Ramsay is nothing like sweet Jon, who Mother sent away to the Wall._

A wave of nausea swept over her. Surely Robb did not mean for her to wed _him!_ “But Ramsay Snow or Bolton or whoever he is-it is unthinkable for us to join houses with him! Everyone knows of his violent disposition. And if you will forgive my saying so, Lord Bolton is no better-everyone in the north knows of the depraved manner in which he sired Ramsay! Mother will not stand for this!”

“You speak truly, child; I’ll not hold that against you,” Brynden spat on the ground and wiped his brow. “Ramsay is a man born of rape, a bastard until recently, a man without honor. He is a bastard in every sense of the word, and I loathe his very existence; you’ll forgive my coarse speech, Sansa.”

Sansa emphatically nodded.

“Lord Bolton is determined to wed the Starks to his mongrel son or he will give no further support to your brother. He will no longer add any men to Robb’s numbers and close off Deepwood Motte and the Dreadfort to Robb’s army.”

“I do not care about any of that. I will refuse.”

“If not you, then he has indicated he will accept Arya with reservations in your stead.”

“Arya? No!” Sansa sank to her knees.  “For shame, Great Uncle! She is a child-“

“I never heard the like of it in all my years," Brynden gripped her tightly, steadying her.

“It is not to be born, Great Uncle. Is there nothing that can be done to prevent this course of action?”  Her anxiety for her own position was overshadowed by her fear for her sister, and unable to hold back, Sansa began sobbing fearfully.

“There, there now,” he took her in his arms and cradled her head against his chest. “Be brave, child. Your Uncle Edmure and I will make certain you are well cared for, be assured of that, or it will be the bastard himself who is in for a flaying-“ he whispered in her ear, “that is, if he lives to see his wedded day.”

That was unlikely, for even as they spoke, Sansa was now almost certain the errand that carried her beloved Sandor away from Winterfell had nothing to do with Robb or the war. “Oh, Great Uncle, you must not worry. I am a Stark, I can be brave. This is all so sudden; I am merely overwrought.  After what happened with Joffrey, I had no idea Robb would even consider the notion of wedding me to secure an alliance. I understood he was to take Sandor Clegane out on another campaign shortly.”

“Your vicious sword shield, the Hound as was, would thoroughly delight in killing Ramsay Bolton,” Brynden chuckled without mirth, “Is it not so?”

“Yes,” she slowly admitted. “He has always hated the Boltons. His disdain for them and their practice of flaying and mistreating dogs is widely known.”

The Blackfish eyed her closely. “Are those the only reasons he would relish killing Ramsay, do you suppose? Or do you think he might object to Robb’s plans and act accordingly?”

“I am certain he would not object to any reasonable request my brother makes,” Sansa delicately replied, well aware of the fine line her great uncle’s questioning laid before her. “I cannot deny, however, that he would not hesitate to kill Ramsay if he felt he posed a risk to my safety. Sandor would never allow any harm to come to me, even if it meant his life.”

“And glad I am of it,” the Blackfish brushed her hair from her eyes. “I’ve seen to your safety, Sansa, but you must keep this between us. Promise me, swear it on the gods.”

Sansa took his hands in hers. “I swear it on the old gods and the new that this will stay between us.”

“You are blood of my blood, lass, my niece’s oldest girl, and the Tully family sees to our own matters, regardless of what the King in the north decides. Tell Robb what he wants to hear and leave the rest to me.”

She placed a light kiss upon her uncle’s bearded cheek. “I will, Great Uncle. Your words greatly ease my mind, thank you ever so much.”

“That’s my brave wolf hearted girl,” He handed her a handkerchief and winked. “Edmure and I have it all arranged for you, dearest, so do not fret. Remember your courtesies and be a good girl now, and all will go well in there.”

“Yes, Great Uncle,” Sansa knitted her brow worriedly, somewhat unwilling to further inquire of her uncle. “Does Mother know of your plans?”

“No, lass,” he pressed his finger to her lips lightly and glanced at the guards at the entranceway. “And she must not. No more talk, now; it is for the best. Your brother awaits us.”

“Yes, I promise.”

“Good girl. Put on your best smile, then. Come along and remember, you must mind your manners with Robb.”


	9. Chapter 9

A melancholic silence greeted the pair as they entered the Great Hall. Sansa whispered a quick prayer to the old gods before allowing her uncle to lead her into her seat. Carefully Sansa smoothed her skirts and nodded at her brother before casting a quick glance at her mother.

Robb looked toward Jeyne, who was seated at his right, sobbing quietly into her handkerchief. _Why is Jeyne sitting in between Robb and Mother?_ Sansa could not remember when last her brother looked so disheartened. Steeling herself,  Sansa patiently waited for his words.

Seeming to read her thoughts, Arya scowled between them and shook her head at Sansa. “Sissy, you won’t believe what our _brother_ is about. It is positively sickening. Prepare yourself.”

“Oh?” Sansa replied innocently, fidgeting with the lace at her wrists. “Do tell, I beg of you.”

"He's gone and_"

“That will do, Arya.” Lady Catelyn raised her brow at her youngest daughter. Nudging her kingly son, Catelyn solemnly turned her eyes away.

Observing her mother’s distress cut Sansa deeply; folding her hands, she willed herself to remain calm and recalled her Great Uncle’s words.

“Sansa, I have news that concerns you,” Robb finally announced. “Do sit down.”

“Forgive me, Your Grace, but Great Uncle already led me to my seat, you see,” Sansa teased, forcing a smile on her face even as sickening bile bit the back of her throat. _I am a Stark, yes, I can be brave._

“Quite right,” Robb coughed and sat down. “I am a bit preoccupied, sister. First I think you should know that Jeyne and I wed under the heart tree at dawn.”

Beside her, the Blackfish growled low in his throat. Arya indignantly huffed and folded her arms while their mother shook her head and averted her eyes.

“Congratulations,” Sansa pulled her lips into a taut smile. “I am most happy for you, brother, goodsister.” Leaning forward, she kissed Jeyne and Robb by turns. “May the gods bless and keep you both.”

Stone faced, Catelyn toyed with her collar in silence.

“Pray, forgive me, Your Grace, but I understood you were to wed in a sennight. I trust all is well, and that your haste to wed is merely born from the deep regard with which you hold one another.”

It did not escape her notice that Robb wore the same sad expression as he did the day she left for King’s Landing. “I wish that were true, dear sister. Lord Bolton has sent word that Lord Tywin’s advances as far as Deepwood Motte. We must away at once.”

“I see." Smoothing her skirts once more, Sansa continued praying while anxiously willing him to the point.

“We have intercepted messages meant for Jaime Lannister indicating Lord Walder Frey can no longer be relied upon for support.”

"Oh? For shame, brother."

"Yes, it is my own fault.”

“Indeed?

“Yes, due to rescinding my betrothal to the daughter of his choosing, thus allying our respective houses. I will be leading my army on the morrow south to treat with Lord Bolton. From there we shall travel to The Twins for Uncle Edmure’s wedding.”

 _Lord Frey is a coward who no doubt needed little incentive to abandon the Stark cause. Knowing this, Robb went ahead and wed the woman he loves, leaving the rift mending to Uncle Edmure and me. How very convenient for the king in the north._ Sansa’s kept her eyes on her hands so as not to betray her outrage.

Next to her mother, Arya snorted loudly, pulling Sansa from her thoughts. “Robb, you could at least tell her the _real_ reason you got hitched so fast. Sansa will find out sooner or later anyway.”

Sansa’s eyes fell from Arya to Jeyne, who rubbed her belly self-consciously as she glanced up a Robb. _It would seem that I am not the only curious member of the family, after all._ Sansa stifled a self-satisfied giggle _Robb would kill Sandor if he knew I shared his bed, and yet his bride is already with child._ Bitterness welled within her; still, Sansa persevered in maintaining her usual innocent air and changed the subject. “Where did you send my sworn shield, dearest brother?”

“Sandor Clegane, the Umbers and Roderick Cassel are sent to escort Ramsay Bolton to Winterfell. I instructed them to travel hard, night and day. If the weather holds, they should arrive in a sennight.”

Biting her lip, Sansa nearly choked on the words she knew he expected in response. "How good of you. Loyal bannerman that he is, I am certain he is eager to offer his congratulations to his king."

Arya indignantly stood up. “Tell her you _had_ to marry, Robb! You owe her that much you know, after you send away the Hound and then-“

“Arya you will be silent or you else made to leave at once,” Catelyn sharply admonished her youngest. “Robb’s wedded day is not why you were called before your king, Sansa. It is not without a price that Lord Bolton stands beside us in our time of need.”

Lady Catelyn moved beside her and took her hand. “The time has come for you to be the dutiful daughter that I raised, Sansa. It is for the sake of our family. For the sake of Winterfell and the north.”

Her mother’s words burned within her. For Winterfell, her family expected her to leave their home and marry a monster. Sansa knew she would never truly have Winterfell from the moment Joffrey took her father’s head.

 _The north is Father-Winterfell is Father. Gods rest him, he never would have asked this of me._ After their escape, Sansa believed she would never want to leave her family home again. When Sandor asked her to go with him, as much as she loved him, Sansa despaired at the idea. But the undeniable truth was Sandor had known of her precarious situation all along.

A flush of heat flooded her cheeks. _Just stay calm and say what they want to hear._ “Of course, Mother.”

In the background, Robb halting made his excuses before finally admitting she was already wed to Ramsay in the sight of the new gods. His statement brought Sansa to her feet in an instant. "Brother, please, how could you-"

“In wartime, Sansa, vows are not a necessity between devoted highborns, you know that. Your claim will secure the support of the Boltons. Time is of the essence and necessity predicated the wedded customs of the old gods you follow. Once the raven reaches Lord Bolton, he has given me his word that he will support our push toward Lord Tywin’s encampment.”

 _My claim,_ she thought, sickened. _That is all the value I possess, even in my own family._ _How could Robb trust their empty vows? Roose Bolton is the vilest of all my brother’s bannermen, and Ramsay’s reputation is pure evil._

"But the old gods will not approve, brother, please do not do this-"

“You and I were raised in the Seven as well. Mother, explain the Seven’s tenets on the matter.”

 _Sandor hated knights and Sansa hated them too, but in that moment she hated Robb worst of all._ For a moment, she wildly considered telling everyone about her night with Sandor as a means of frustrating Robb’s plans before recalling the promises she made earlier. The Blackfish patted her hand and willed her to sit down.

Catelyn’s sorrowful eyes met her own before turning to her eldest son. “Yes, Robb, it is true that the Seven makes such allowances in wartime, but I have tried to make you understand the exception is solely made when the groom is very devoted to the Seven and is fighting in the king’s vanguard.”

“No matter." Robb waved his hand. "Ramsay will join us in the vanguard as soon as he comes to you, Sansa. The septon arranged it all. He assures me that the gods have taken into consideration your devotion and that alone will serve as a vow of the heart.”

Never would Sansa have believed her own blood would auction her off to one such as Ramsay, not even to bolster the war effort. _Trust Sandor,_ she repeated to herself, _he is the only one who has never lied to me_. _He laid his sword at my feet and vowed to protect me and last night he swore to return, no matter what the others may plan for me._

As the silence stretched between them, Sansa knew what was expected of her; still, she could not let her feelings go completely unspoken. “Ramsay Snow-it is not to be born, brother,” she finally choked out indignantly.

Brynden set a glass of wine before her and rested his arm on her chair. “Bear up, cub. Drink this, now.”

“Robb, really, this is an extraordinary thing to ask of Sansa,” Catelyn hissed, glaring at Jeyne. Her goodsister promptly began openly weeping once more. “It is no wonder she is stunned speechless. Is there truly no other means of achieving support? You must consider all other avenues, I beg of you.”

Robb interrupted. “I agree it is most distasteful, Mother, but my advisors have assured me it is the only way.” Turning to her, he gravely added, “Sansa you must never call him Snow, or he will hurt you.”

“Mother, please,” Arya tugged at her mother’s skirts. “You cannot let Robb wed Sansa to the bastard of Bolton! He made Lady Hornwood eat her fingers!”

Outside Nymeria mournfully howled long and low; Grey Wind, Summer and Shaggydog added their voices until the courtyard echoed with wolf song.

“See even they don’t like it!” Her sister howled at the top of her voice. “Robb, you’ll regret this!”

Despair clutched Sansa’s throat, but at the same time the sound of the direwolve's calls brought a strange calm over her. _If Lady was here, I would not be afraid. I have Sandor, though, I must have faith. King Robert told Father to get me a dog. It seems I need Sandor’s protection now more than ever, even in my own home._

“Mother, enough of this.” Robb slumped in his chair and took Jeyne’s hand in his own. “I have made my decision. Sansa is wed to Ramsay Bolton and that is the end of the matter.”

"Robb, how could you? Father will haunt you for this!"

“Arya, silence!” Catelyn stood and took the squirming girl by the arm. “You need a walk.”

“No! I’ve been a walk!”

“You need another.” Sansa noticed her mother’s eyes glistening with tears as she led Arya out of the room.

“Sansa-“Arya’s voice trailed down the hall. “Don’t let him get away with it!”

Robb squirmed in his seat, refusing to meet her pleading eyes. Draining his tankard, the Blackfish chuckled darkly. “Nephew, how do you hope to manage the whole of the north when you cannot control one unruly little sister?”

 _I must put an end to this at once, for Arya’s sake as well as my own._ Setting her shoulders, Sansa addressed her brother. “Please, may I take my leave now, Your Grace?”

“Yes, Sansa, but before you go,” Robb’s jaw clenched tightly, “I want you to know if there was another way, any other way, I would have chosen it.”

 _I will never forgive this, brother, never,_ her mind screamed as wordlessly she fled with her great uncle on her heels. Once beloved to her as only an eldest brother can be to an admiring younger sibling, Robb lost far more than the support of the Freys and Boltons; Sansa was lost to him as a sister, forever.

Once inside her rooms, Sansa sobbed into her great uncle's jerkin until she felt there were no tears left in her.

“You must have faith in me, lass.” He dried her face. “Tully women and troubles with men go hand in hand, or did your mother not tell you?”

She understood, far more than he knew. Sniffling, Sansa wiped her eyes. “I know, Great Uncle, thank you. Please believe, do not take my sorrow as a lack of faith in you. Far from it; I am just stunned by Robb’s decision. I fear he is lost to me.”

“I know, child,” he stroked her cheek with a sigh. “Perhaps it will comfort you to learn that Clegane is not on the errand your kingly brother thinks, believe that. Pack a travelling bag, keep it hidden, and I’ll let you know when to bring it.”


	10. Chapter 10

That evening, the announcement of Sansa’s _in absentia_ marriage during the royal wedded feast dealt the final blow to the king's already dismal, joyless affair. Robb and Jeyne appeared anything but happy, offering the barest civilities to the guests. Mother, her great uncle and Arya all wore similar solemn countenances.

Observing the shocked expressions of her brother’s bannermen gave Sansa a perverse sense of satisfaction _Why shouldn’t they be as surprised by my brother’s behavior as I am?  His decision to join houses with the Boltons may very well endanger his position more than he imagines_ , she dismally concluded as the evening wore on.

Outwardly, Sansa endured the stilted wedded blessings the men offered with her usual grace, carefully guarding her manner throughout the evening.  _It is a necessary evil_ , she reminded herself, _if Great Uncle Brynden's plan is to go undiscovered by Robb and Mother._

For his part, the Blackfish stayed devotedly by her side, eschewing the exaggerated attentions of the serving wenches in favor of readily refilling her cups. He shooed away overeager well-wishers when necessary and his mere presence discouraged the traditional humor that accompanied such announcements. For perhaps the first time in her life, Sansa drank readily and deeply, and before long her disillusionment drowned in the warmth of fine Arbor gold.

The next morning, the resulting illness provided an opportune, albeit unpleasant, excuse from the maester which freed her from the obligation of attending Robb’s departure. After drinking the tonics the maester provided, Sansa spent the rest of the day in bed hugging her pillow and daydreaming of her reunion with Sandor.

As she blankly watched the snowflakes blanketing her balcony, the empty void of Sandor’s absence weighed heavily upon her. It was far more than the newfound physical pleasures for which she longed; since the escape from the Red Keep, her sworn shield turned lover ensconced himself as a fixture of her everyday life. Without him, the young woman felt empty, exposed, and adrift amongst people she once trusted.

The days blended into weeks and still Sandor did not come for her. During his absence, the unbearable uncertainty of his safety and whereabouts robbed the young woman of peace, and Sansa began spending her days in quiet worship in the godswood. She declined the diversions she previously enjoyed, and her former associations as well in favor of praying for his safe return.

Lady Catelyn actively implored Sansa to see the maester, believing a melancholic affliction settled over her daughter as a result of her forced marriage to Ramsay. Sansa grew thinner each day, having lost the taste of sharing meals at the family table with Jeyne and her mother, and took to lounging in bed until late morning and retiring early in the evening. Curling around the pillow on which Sandor had slept, she closed her eyes and inhaled the remains of his scent while imagining he was with her once again.

Before long she abandoning her daily routine altogether, and Sansa began spending the better part of each day begging the old gods for his safe return to Winterfell.  Arya took to accompanying her to the godswood with Nymeria in tow, practicing her sword strokes and napping beside the massive direwolf while Sansa prayed nearby.

“We could sic Nymeria on him, you know, when he comes to Winterfell,” her little sister whispered conspiratorially as they approached the heart tree. “The old gods wouldn’t blame us.”

“We will do no such thing,” Sansa fought back a smile, not wanting Arya to take her laughter for approval of the plan. “But I love you for what you are trying to do for me, dearest, truly I do.”

“Sansa, if you don’t mind, Nymeria and I are gonna head back now,” Arya grinned, pulling away from her embrace. “A storm is brewing, and Milly promised if it snowed she would make lemoncakes.”

“Alright Arya. Save some for me, will you?”

“I can’t make any promises,” she called, already moving swiftly up the path toward the castle.

It was late afternoon when her uncle came to her in the godswood. Trembling, Sansa's heart came into her throat at his sudden appearance as she took his hands into her own. The Blackfish’s relaxed, easy demeanor soon sent her worries to flight.

“Sansa child, do you have your warmest things ready?”

“Yes, Ser,” she anxiously stood and brushed the leaves from her gown. “Is it time?”

“Soon, lass,” Brynden placed a folded blue bloodied cloth bearing the silver trout naiant of his sigil. “Your brother offered Ramsay Bolton your maiden’s blood, and now I bring you his blood in return. You were never his in truth, child and now you are free in the sight of the old gods and the new.”

Gasping, she clutched his neck and whispered close to his ear. “Great Uncle-truly? You killed Ramsay?”

“I arranged it, aye,” The Blackfish brushed a lock of hair from her face. “I would do it again, a thousand times, if it meant your safety. So would the man who put the bastard of Bolton to the sword.”

Sansa knitted her brow and stared down at their entwined fingers. Brynden tipped her chin up to him questioningly. “You’ll not ask me with whom I entrusted the deed?”

In spite of everything, Sansa dared not offer Sandor’s name to her uncle. Meekly she whispered, “I would not presume to know the identity of your choice, Great Uncle.”

“That’s my good girl,” he chuckled, leading her deeper into the wood. “All in good time. Very soon I’ll allow the man tell you himself.”

 _Sandor._ Her tummy twisted as she clutched the bloody cloth to her chest and stifled a smile. “Is this dear man nearby?”

“Aye, that he is. Now tuck that into your skirts; I’ll turn away,” The Blackfish cleared his throat. “No one must see it; promise me child, not even the maid.”

“I promise.” Sansa nervously looked about the forest and then whispered, “Do the others know of Ramsay’s fate?”

“No, not yet. Only Rodrik, the Greatjon and Clegane; he came at dawn bearing word, as the man wisely did not entrust the matter to another. Hurry now.”

 _Sandor is safe, and I am free of Ramsay!_ “The old gods bless him, Great Uncle.” After gathering Sandor’s favor into her bodice, Sansa meticulously smoothed the front of her gown. “I must admit I am surprised by your willingness to discuss such matters with me, Great Uncle.”

“Your brother and mother still view you a child but we know better, don’t we?” He winked at her.

 _Does he suspect that I have been intimate with a man? No surely not._ Her heartbeat thundered in her ears as Sansa bit her lip and waited for his next words.

“Flowering, wedding, bedding and child bearing are not the only things which mold a girl into a woman, Sansa.”

“Indeed,” she murmured dejectedly. At times, it seemed those portions of life were the most important offerings afforded by the gods to a highborn woman. None of the women in her life ever prepared her for the harsh realities that life inevitably held, and the only man who suggested life would be anything but a fairy tale was Sandor. Now it seemed her uncle shared his view that life was not a song.

“A few months past, a bit of Dornish sour loosened the tongues of the Kingslayer and the Hound, child, and finally they told me of the treatment you endured in King’s Landing. Hard ways for you to grow up, and not the way your mother and father would have chosen for you.”

"Yes, it is true, but I have come to believe Father sent Sandor Clegane to protect me after his death.” Sansa frowned. “While he was no true knight, he did what he could, Great Uncle, although his actions largely have gone unappreciated by the family.”

“I know he did, lass, I know,” he muttered, looking toward the sky. “And gods save me, the Hound still does his best by you.”

Turning sharply, she stared into his eyes. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Clegane routed the Dreadfort to get to Ramsay, child. Rodrik Cassel said that when the Hound put the steel into the bastard of Bolton, he shouted that it was for you.” Laughing at her stunned expression, the Blackfish patted her hand. “His ferocity reached such a level all the men fled from him, save Jaime Lannister.”

For a moment Sansa remembered the day of the riots. The way the crowd howled, the man who had tried to pull her from her horse, the cruel pinch of fingers on her wrist as she lost her balance and began to fall. Sandor leapt at them, his sword a blur of steel that trailed red mist, and when the people to escape him, he had laughed, his burned face for a moment transformed.

 _Perhaps Nymeria would have given Ramsay a kinder death_ , _at that_. Shivering, she imagined the ferocious Hound plunging his sword into Ramsay, his face twisted into the same familiar and yet frightening expression. Sansa hugged herself, suddenly cold; what she wouldn’t give to feel the warmth of his powerful arms surrounding her now, his tender caresses that stirred her from within.

The Blackfish eyed her somber gaze quizzically, then asked in a hushed tone, “Sansa, have you never wondered at his devotion?”

“No,” she answered honestly. Like so many other things, Sandor’s loyalty was another constant in Sansa’s life that she had taken for granted; she would not make that mistake again.

“Your brother should have rewarded him with your hand before this mess with the Boltons and the Freys. I dare say House Clegane’s reputation is no worse than that of those men.”

Her uncle’s implication was beyond belief, leaving Sansa light-headed, almost feverish. "What are you saying?"

“Don’t play the highborn coquette with me, child,” Brynden grimly tilted her face up to him once more. “Despite his face and manner, the man is unquestioningly devoted to you, and though he has made no offer, I think I know why he is so with you. I would hope you are not the kind to allow his fearsome scars blind you to his steadfast nature.”

“Certainly not, Great Uncle,” she shook her head. “Joffrey taught me not to judge others based solely on appearance long ago.”

The Blackfish gritted his teeth. “Clegane would never hurt you, Sansa; and coarse though he may be, I do believe he cares for you in his own way.”

“I know he would never hurt me,” she finally whispered softly. “And he does care for me, it is true, and I for him.”

“You must listen to me: leave with Clegane, child, do not hesitate. Is the only way to guarantee your safety.”

Swallowing hard, Sansa tightened her grip on his arm. "But what of Arya? I cannot leave Winterfell without the assurance that she will not be forced to make amends for me. I-I would not do to her what Robb did to me.”

“Such will not be asked of her, cub. She is still a wee lass and a hellion besides,” he chuckled. “Arya will be protected from such nonsense for a time yet, mark my word.”

“That eases my mind greatly,” Sansa paused. “When will you send him for me?”

“I cannot say just yet. I dispatched a raven to Robb stating you will need to an escort to meet with Ramsay at the Dreadfort, as he has fallen ill. Your brother will undoubtedly give his consent. Play your part, cub, and gods willing, all will go well.”

She leaned close and squeezed his arm. “I am ready to do whatever you ask.”

The Blackfish nodded. “Once word is out that Ramsay is dead, there will be an endless stream of suitors coming for you, Sansa. More men who will only want your claim.”

She knew that all too well, and his admonishment churned up sickening dread within her. “I know.”

“And as much as I would like to,” he tweaked her nose, “I can’t very well have Clegane kill them all.”

Sandor would not hesitate to kill anyone who stood in the way of their escape, and would be more than willing to take her away as long as need be, of that she was certain. It was a heady feeling, knowing a man as powerful and fierce as Sandor Clegane was ready to die to keep her safe, and her mind raced with a curious blend of excitement and trepidation. “Indeed you cannot,” she laughed softly, “And neither can Sandor. How will his deed go undiscovered, do you suppose?”

“Clegane handled it all, child, I would not burden you with the gory details,” Brynden darkly intoned in her ear. “Ramsay’s body will never be found, I assure you. Hush now,” he whispered, “in order for our plan to succeed, you must stay as silent as the grave until the thing is done, understand?"

“Pray forgive me,” she wrung her hands. “I am certain you know what is best, Great Uncle.”

“It warms my heart to hear you say such,” the Blackfish kissed her hand. “So much like your mother, you are, and every bit as dear to my heart. Let us go back now.”


	11. Chapter 11

Sansa and the Blackfish passed the trip back to the castle in polite, lighthearted conversation, speaking no more of what had taken place with Ramsay. So relieved was she to learn Sandor was safe and nearby that it took all the resolve the young woman had to remain calm and collected. After leaving her uncle, Sansa fairly ran to her chambers where she finally gave vent to her feelings, laughing and twirling around the room before finally flopping down on the bed.

 _Sandor has freed me once again! Soon we will be reunited!_ She could hardly wait to feel his strong arms around her once again and burrow her nose into his chest, taking comfort in the warm masculine scent of his skin. Sansa decided she wanted to look her best for him, and eagerly she began rifling through her closet for the right gown.

Soft knocking at her door startled her out of her reverie. “Lady Bolton, will you sup in your rooms tonight or will you join the family?”

 _I am Lady Bolton no more, thanks to Sandor_. _I cannot sit through a meal with my family; I will never manage to conceal my happiness and Mother and Arya are bound to become suspicious after I have been so melancholy._ “I am very tired, Milly; please offer my apologies to them.”

“Yes, milady, but Sweetling, you must eat something. You’re wasting away.”

“Alright, Milly, please bring an assortment of dried meats, cheeses, bread, tea and fruit," Sansa called and then added, “and lemoncakes if there are any to be found.”

The maid quickly returned with her meal and lit the fire in the room. “Tis a cold night, milady. Storm’s a’brewin’ out of the Frostfangs. I put extra furs on the bed, and hot bricks for your feet, too.”

“Thank you, Milly, that is very kind of you. Please, I do not wish to be disturbed for the rest of the evening. You may take the night off, if you wish.”

“Praying for your man again, are ye, lass?” Milly squinted at her.

“Yes,” Sansa nodded, stifling a small smile.

The old woman shook her head. “Better than he deserves, the bastard,” she muttered under her breath as she eased Sansa into her prettiest sleeping gown. “G’night now.”

“Good night, Milly.”

Sighing contentedly, Sansa wasted no time devouring her favorite treats with relish. Weeks of worry left her unable to eat and most of Sansa’s gowns hung loose on her now.  _It will not do for Sandor to find me wan and pale,_ she fretted as she popped a third lemoncake in her mouth.

A slight movement drew her eye to the window seat. _One of Bran’s crows, no doubt, making yet another mess on my balcony,_ she grumbled just as a large hand clamped down firmly over her mouth.

“Little bird,” Sandor rasped into her ear, his breath hot against her skin. “I had to cover your mouth. If I startled you, you might have cried out.” Slowly she felt him inch away his hand while brushing his lips against her fluttering pulse. “I rode all night and day to reach you. Let me have you, lass."

Sansa flew into his arms. “Dearest, I have missed you so! However did you sneak in here without anyone seeing you?”

His mouth curled into a sneer. “A month’s worth of clandestine lessons in swordplay bought me a detailed map of all of Winterfell’s secret passageways drawn by your little sister.” Frowning, he drew away from her and placed his hand on her forehead. “Sansa, tell me truly: have you been ill?”

“Only with worry,” she whispered, feeling a flush of heat rush to her cheeks under his intense gaze. “I could not help it.”

Sighing, Sandor pulled her tightly against him. “I would not have you get in such a state over me, little bird,” he nuzzled the nape of her neck. “You must never do such again, understand?”

Sansa answered by turning her mouth up to him and softly nibbling at his lips. Warm hands deftly stroked the smooth flesh of her legs and thighs under her nightgown, baring her body to him. Sandor lifted her into his lap and ground Sansa’s hips against him as he deepened the kiss, crushing his mouth against her own in his haste.

Shyly she blushed as he pulled her sleeping gown over her head. Sansa quickly divested Sandor of his tunic, her hands eagerly caressing his skin, savoring the feel of his body.

Once freed of his clothing, she noticed Sandor appeared even more muscular than when he left her, the once smooth flesh of his back and abdomen now etched with fresh scars. _He suffered for me; for us,_ she contemplated solemnly, reverently tracing her fingers over each one.

Suddenly it struck her that Sandor's magnificently muscled body, the body that brought her such pleasure, was truly forged not in lame practice yard exercises but on the bloody battlefields where he spent most of his adult life. Humbled, Sansa vowed she would never take such for granted again. "Nor will I have you injured for me, my love. Never again will I allow us parted."

“Gods but I’ve hungered for you, lass,” he growled against her breast, lifting her into his arms. Eagerly she wrapped her legs around his waist, giggling as he carried her to the bed.

After laying her down, Sandor buried his face in Sansa’s hair while his arms snaked around her waist. The man easily lifted her hips over his own as his mouth trailed hot kisses down her neck and shoulders.

Pulling him closer still, Sansa arched against him, bringing his hot, hardened member firmly against her woman’s place. Sandor was already soaked with arousal, and the slick friction of their bodies sliding rhythmically together pulled a long, unladylike moan from Sansa’s throat.

The want she suffered during their time apart begged to be satisfied, and shamelessly Sansa reveled in every inch of him, her hands grasping his muscular frame for purchase as she positioned his head at her entrance. “Sandor, my love, take me now,” she begged into his ruined ear and then sucked lightly on the lobe.

A low growl rumbled deep in Sandor’s throat as frantic hands gripped her thighs firmly, stilling her movements. “Sansa,” he panted desperately into her ear, “Easy lass or I won’t last -“

“Please, I cannot wait! Take me now,” she gasped, crying out at the feel of his scarred mouth suckling the pulse point at her throat. “I have needed you so, I cannot wait any longer, please-“

“Shh, little bird,” he murmured, gently easing his swollen manhood inside her with a guttural moan. The sharp pain as her inner walls stretched around his long thick manhood soon gave way to sweet aching pleasure. Wantonly Sansa ground down into him with each thrust of his hips, frantically struggling to match the pace of his lovemaking.

“Fuck,” he groaned into her hair, his entire body shuddering beneath her.

“Please, Sandor, I need more, I-“

“I know what you need, Sansa; easy little bird,” he growled, moving to take her breast into his mouth while his fingers slowly worked her tender folds. He continued rubbing the sensitive spot above her woman’s place until Sansa’s writhed beneath him, her own intense peak surging through her body.

Immediately afterward, Sandor loved her again, carefully taking his time exploring and teasing her until she found her release twice more. To her surprise, he rolled her on top of him as he sheathed himself deep inside, urging her to move into a sitting position over his member.

“Slow, lass, slow,” he rasped out, and she adjusted her movement. He never tore his gaze away from her, and Sansa saw the raw passion raging in Sandor’s eyes as he found his release, a far different type of storm than she was accustomed to seeing in the man’s deep gray eyes.

Afterward, they lay entwined in each other’s limbs, sweaty and sated. Languidly Sansa ran her fingers through the thick black hair covering his chest, her cheek rising and falling as Sandor’s breathing slowly returned to normal. “Has Great Uncle told you when we are to leave Winterfell?”

Calloused fingers faintly traced circles over the bare skin of her hip, bringing tingles of pleasure to her once more. “Aye, on the morrow, but I could not wait to come to you. I hungered for you, little bird, like the starved dog that I am.”

“I am glad you did not wait,” she sat up, brushing her lips over his mouth, lifting her leg over him. “I needed you, too.”

Sandor responded with a deep moan, his hand snaking down to firmly cup her bottom. Pulling her onto his lap once more, he rasped low, “Such an eager little bird you are, Sansa. I never thought I'd see the day you'd be begging for my cock."

"Sandor," she chided softly. "You must not speak of our lovemaking in such a coarse manner.”

"Don't go getting all proper on me now," his eyes twinkled. "Especially while you’re naked as your name day and straddling my lap.” Rolling away from her, Sandor reached for her gown and draped it over her body. “Get up, lass. Come with me now.”

“Are we leaving Winterfell?” She asked, startled. “Now? In the dead of night?”

“No, not leaving Winterfell,” he chuckled, reaching for her gown. “Just follow me.”

Sandor led her deep into the godswood, the pale outstretched limbs of the weirwood trees illuminated by ghostly blue moonlight dancing on the freshly fallen snow.

Puzzled, Sansa looked around her. “What are we doing here? You keep no gods.”

“True enough, that. I mean to take you as my wife before the old gods, Sansa, before we leave on the morrow,”Sandor took her small hands into his own. “Tell me now if you still mean to have me as your husband.”

“Yes, I do,” she caressed his face slowly, allowing her fingers to trace both of Sandor’s bearded cheeks. Gazing levelly into her eyes, Sandor removed his cloak, and with a delicacy surprising in so large a man, he gently draped the heavy garment over her shoulders.

Smiling, Sansa blinked back happy tears and softly made her vows. “I am yours as you are mine from this day until the end of my days. With this kiss I take you as my lord and husband.”

Sandor tipped her face up to him and tenderly caressed his finger along her jawline. “I am yours as you are mine from this day until the end of my days. With these kiss I take you as my lady and wife.” He gently bent to kiss her and then tied a yellow sash with three black dogs of House Clegane around her wrist. “This is a wedded favor, a tradition of the Westerlands. Keep it hidden.”

“How beautiful,” she fingered the fine silk. “I will wear it under my gown, Sandor,” she placed a delicate kiss on each cheek before covering his mouth with her own. “I shall place it next to my heart, and there it will remain all the days of my life.”

Sansa removed her direwolf sigil necklace and motioned for Sandor to bend down. “This is for you.”

Smirking, Sandor nodded and dipped his head, allowing her to place it around his neck before tucking it securely inside his tunic. His keen gray eyes softened, and her husband regarded the pleased expression on her face with quiet amusement. ”We best get back. We’ll need an early start on the morrow,” Sandor snarled out a low, mirthless laugh and spat on the ground. “Besides, your lady mother should be coming in to tell you of your other _husband’s_ illness at dawn.”

“Do not speak of that person here,” she whispered, running her hands through his hair and drawing his head down to her once more. “You are, and will forever be, the only husband I will ever have Sandor Clegane, I swear it on the old gods and the new.”

“Aye, you speak truly, that,” Sandor sighed softly, his voice rasping even more harshly than usual. “And you are the only wife I will ever take,little bird, you best believe that.” Offering her his arm, Sandor grinned at her. “Come wife, let’s go back now.”


	12. Chapter 12

Sansa awakened at dawn to her mother knocking softly on the door. “Sansa, Sweetling, let me in. Your maid locked the door.”

“Peg pardons, Mother. Allow me a moment to put on a dressing gown and robe, I beg.”

A quick glance around the room revealed Sandor had slipped out during the night. She let out a sigh of relief and hastily drew her sleeping shift over her head.

Glancing at her reflection in the mirror, she smiled softly at the light bruise blooming on her collarbone where her husband earlier ravaged the spot covering her pulse.  Draping her hair over her shoulder, she pulled on her robe and padded to the door. She opened to find her lady mother wearing a stern, if not somewhat relieved, expression.

“Sansa, I must speak to you at once.”

“Mother, please, come inside. It is hardly an hour after daybreak,” she took her by the arm. “Tell me truly, is something amiss?”

“It is your husband, dearest. Word just reached the castle that Ramsay has suddenly taken ill.”

“You don’t say?” Sansa turned away to conceal a small smile. “It is not the time of year for the ague; what has happened to him?”

“There is no time to explain. Come, he is asking for you. Clegane is waiting with the horses. He will fill you in on the rest of the details as you travel.”

 _I am certain he will._ Sansa nodded gravely, skillfully schooling her expression to evoke the appropriate serious response. “Of course, Mother. I will make ready at once.”

“I will have the maids draw a bath,” Lady Catelyn fussed about the room, removing select gowns and cloaks from the closet and carefully laying them on the bed. “You must pack in haste, child. Take only the necessities.”  Lady Catelyn paused and sat Sansa on the edge of the bed, placing her hand on her shoulder.  “Ramsay’s condition is most serious indeed. Prepare yourself.”

Guilt welled within her but she kept still, hardening her heart as she recalled how easily her brother disposed of her to a brutal man all of the sake of benefitting his war effort. “Mother, tell me truly; do you believe he will not survive?” Sansa asked softly, still unable to bring herself to mention the loathsome Ramsay by name.

“No, dear, I am afraid he will not. Clegane said his fate was certain. As much as I do not care for the man, I cannot deny that your sworn shield knows of what he speaks. I am afraid you will be a widow before you have a bedding ceremony, my poor lemoncake, though I cannot pretend that I am not relieved you will likely never see the bastard of Bolton alive.”

“Truth be told,” Sansa quietly admitted, “I am relieved myself.”

Catelyn smiled sadly and placed her hand on her cheek. “Believe me, I understand, child. The Maiden has been merciful to you. But you must play your part, Sansa,for the sake of propriety.”

“Certainly, Mother, I will do what is expected. No one will be the wiser of my true feelings, I swear it.” Sansa patted her mother’s hands, turning away to hide the emotions welling within her. “If you will excuse me, I will make haste.”

“Of course, dearest. I will leave you alone with your thoughts. Remember my words, Sansa; you must not be too particular in your preparations. You must hurry.”

After choking down the roll and tea Milly brought to break her fast, Sansa bathed and brushed out her hair. Lady Catelyn returned, dismissed the maid, and helped her into her warmest gown and furred overshoes before tying her cloak about her neck.

Smoothing down her hair, Sansa’s mother gloomily attempted a smile. “With the blessing of the old gods, Ramsay will have already passed by the time you arrive. Listen to me carefully: you need not wait for your goodfather to return, should you find Ramsay thus. I know it is not proper for you to leave without seeing him but you must come back to us at once, no matter what anyone tells you.”

Puzzled, Sansa took her mother by the hand. “Are you certain that is wise? Robb-“

“Leave your brother to me. I will not have my girl stay at the Dreadfort a moment longer than necessary.” Lady Catelyn kissed each of Sansa’s cheeks. ”You are a woman grown; there is something you must know about Lord Bolton before you reach the Dreadfort, Sansa. Please, daughter, sit down.”

The somber look in her mother’s eyes unnerved her. Obediently Sansa sat down beside her mother. “Mother, tell me; what is it?”

Sansa watched Lady Catelyn swallow back her tears. “Are you familiar with the ancient northern practice of prima nocte?”

“Y-yes,” Sansa whispered, raising her hand to her throat. “It is the tradition of a lord taking a bride on the first night of her union, thus denying her husband her maiden’s gift.”

“You have heard it said Lord Bolton still adheres to this tradition?”

“Yes, come to think of it, I have. Oh, gods be good,” Sansa sank back down onto her bed, unable to bear the suggestion her mother’s words brought to mind. How could any man who served her father do such a thing? What was more upsetting, however, was that Robb married her into a family that practiced it, knowing full well both her goodfather and husband would share her? It was not to be born.

“Sansa, I cannot pretend that Lord Bolton, should he reach the Dreadfort before you  
depart, will not invoke his right in his son’s stead.” Catelyn sighed shakily and gripped Sansa’s hand firmly. “In fact, I am certain he would do just that. It is the surest way to secure Robb’s favor, no matter the fate the gods have chosen for Ramsay, and I am sure he would take the opportunity to breed another heir.”

“Mother, the Boltons are thoroughly despicable. How can Robb ally himself with them?”

“He has lost the support of the Freys and the Tyrells, Sansa. His position is most precarious indeed.” Her mother stared into her hands sadly. “It is not what your Father would have wanted but that is the situation we must bear.”

“What is it you wish me to do?“

“I have instructed Clegane to take you away from the Dreadfort at once, no matter what orders your brother may have given him, is that understood? His vow to protect you far supersedes that of any he made to Robb in the eyes of the gods, since Clegane  made them long ago and prior to your brother’s recent lapse in judgment.”

“If he learns of it, Robb will execute Sandor for treason, Mother-“

“I will take full responsibility for the Hound’s actions with your brother, should it come to that.” Catelyn held Sansa’s chin firmly. “You do exactly as Clegane tells you, Sansa. He will keep you safe. Promise me.”

 _Yes, he will,_ Sansa added silently. Sadly, she kissed her mother’s cheek, clinging to her one last time before following her to the courtyard. “I will do whatever he asks, Mother, I swear it.”

“There’s my brave girl,” Lady Catelyn held her tightly against her breast. “Come now, the time has come for you to leave us.”

In the courtyard, Sandor stood woodenly beside Stranger, wearing his usual disinterested expression. Refusing to meet her gaze, he absently checked the warhorse’s hooves while mother and daughter said their final goodbyes.

Jeyne stood a respectful distance away, smiling sadly, as she always did now. Arya, Bran and Rickon all tearfully kissed and petted her. “Sissy, you will send us a raven, won’t you?”

“Yes, Arya, of course I will,” Sansa choked out.

Bran stared at her with a solemn expression. “The old gods will guide your path, Sansa. I will pray at the Heart tree for your safety and for Clegane’s as well. I will visit you in your dreams.”

“Thank you, brother,” she kissed each of his cheeks, not certain she understood his meaning.

“Shaggydog and me will miss you,” Rickon tearfully buried his face in her skirts. “Here, I brought you a rock. Carry it with you and think of me.”

“My sweet baby,” Sansa sobbed in earnest, burying her face in his downy curls. “I will miss every day.”

She clung to them all until the Blackfish signaled it was time to leave. “Are you ready?”

“Yes,” Sansa quietly answered, the heavy realization that she may never see her family again suddenly overwhelming her. The shame of deceiving them blended with the overwhelming relief that she soon would be far away, safe from Robb’s marriage schemes, Lord Bolton and the war.

Wringing her hands, Sansa turned to look at them one last time. Great Uncle Brynden pulled her close and whispered into her ear. “Go on, child. Do as you’re bid and all will be well. I’ll keep watch over your Mother and siblings. Go on, then.”

A great well of emotion threatened to break forth as Sansa watched her mother turn tearfully away into her uncle’s waiting arms. _Mother knows; she knows Great Uncle Brynden is sending me away and she is allowing it for my sake, the sudden realization came to her._

“I love you very much, all of you,” Sansa brokenly called out as Sandor carefully lifted her into the saddle and then climbed upon the heavy courser’s back, positioning himself behind her at a respectful distance.

“Ready, little bird?” He rasped into her ear, the burned side of his face twitching slightly as he spoke.

“I am ready,” Sansa answered softly.

“Alright then,” he nodded at the Blackfish and spurred Stranger out of Winterfell’s gates. The mournful howls of her sibling’s direwolves echoed in the distance, the sound cutting a corresponding fissure though Sansa’s heart. Sandor pulled her flush against him, rubbing soothing circles over her belly as she finally allowed her tears to fall unabated.

After several hours of hard travel, Sandor turned Stranger and backtracked westward, leading them deep into the Wolfswood.

“Where are we going?” Sansa asked, snuggling down beneath the furs.

“The Wall, lass,” Sandor answered low, wrapping his huge hand around her midsection and pulling her tight against his chest. “We make for the Wall.”

_Did she hear him correctly? They were to spend the rest of the war at the Wall?_

Startled, she sat bolt upright in the saddle and stared at him. “The Wall-truly? But how will we manage? Jon is sure to find us. I-“

“Don’t get your feathers ruffled,” he growled into her ear. “Your lady mother finally gave up her foolish prejudices and sent a raven to your bastard brother Jon. She told him all about Robb’s marrying you off to Ramsay and her fears about Lord Bolton. She asked him to make a place for us there, to keep you safe for the duration of the war.”

 _All this time Mother wanted Sandor to take me away?_ Sansa sat in stunned silence. “When?”

“As soon as the Blackfish told her Ramsay wanted you at the Dreadfort. We’re to stay in a Wilding village on the Frozen Shore, away from the lowlife scum the Night’s Watch has been recruiting as of late. Your brother found us a tiny cabin. It’ll be rough going, but we’ll be alright.”

Overwhelmed, Sansa gave vent to her emotions and sobbed freely, burying her face in her husband’s cloak. Behind her, she felt her husband draw a deep breath.

“Come now,” he grumbled, pulling her closer still. “You need not fear anything with me,” Sandor wiped her face with a handkerchief.  “I’ll keep you safe, wife.”

“No, it is not that,” she reassured him. “I trust you. I am most grateful that we are husband and wife and will have a place of our own.” After a moment of silence, she quietly added, “Dearest Mother went against Robb, against her king, to protect me. I cannot believe it.”

“Aye that she did,” Sandor shrugged. “Wanting your brother to find justice for your Father doesn’t mean she lost all motherly feeling for you.” He kissed the top of her head. “It won’t be forever, wife; we’ll return to Winterfell and you’ll be reunited with your kin one day.”

Despite her emotional state, hearing Sandor call her wife sent a thrill through her body. ”You are my family now, Sandor, and I am ready to start a new life with you,” she caressed his face. “And our home will be wherever we make it, together. Do you believe my words?”

“I do, lass, I do,” Sandor answered quietly before kissing her in return. They savored each other for several moments, until  he cleared his throat and gently pulled away from her. Straightening up in the saddle, Sandor grinned. “No more of that, now, or we won’t get very far.”

He put the spurs to Stranger and the newly married couple hastened toward their future, where the curious little bird and the Hound were free-free of the war, free of the game of thrones, free to love each at long last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, that's all folks! Thank you so much for your enthusiasm and support for this story. I have thoroughly enjoyed reading your comments and getting to know some of you better, Sansan fans are the best!
> 
> TheCatTheWall made fanart for this fic. I can't seem to get it posted here so I put in on my Tumblr. Enjoy!  
> http://thefeatherofhope.tumblr.com/post/62174834669/look-what-thecatthewall-made-for-my-a-curious


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